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NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


NORTH   AFRICA 
AND    THE    DESERT 

SCENES  AND  MOODS 


BY 

GEORGE    E.    WOODBERRY 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1914 


I^Sii 


Copyright,  1914,  bt 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  April,  1914 


mo 
SETH    LOW 

LONG   MY   FRIEND   AND   ONCE   MY   CHIEF 

A    STATESMAN    INTERESTED 

EN    ALL    THAT    PERTAINS    TO    HUMAN    WELFARE 

I    DEDICATE 

CONFIDENT    OF    HIS    SYMPATHY 

THIS    BOOK    OF    THE    ARAB    WORLD 


J  CONTENTS 


PAGE 


I.  Tunisian  Days 1 

II.  Tlemcen 51 

III.  FiGUIG 103 

IV.  TOUGOURT 147 

V.  Scenes  and  Visions 195 

VI.  On  the  Mat 245 

VII.  Djerba 287 

VIII.  Tripoli 313 


TUNISIAN  DAYS 


I 

TUNISIAN  DAYS 


I  WAS  fortunate  in  my  first  landfall  at  Tunis. 
It  was  a  fine  sea  picture  framed  in  that 
chill  November  dawn.  On  my  left,  over 
the  rippling  watery  gold  to  the  few  pink  clouds 
eastward,  lay  the  great  blue  mountain  head- 
land, stretching  far  behind.  In  front,  a  little  to 
the  right,  was  Goletta,  the  port,  hard  by;  and 
ranging  off  northward  the  line  of  the  ocean 
beach  ran  stern  and  solemn,  with  the  light- 
house above.  That  rise,  there,  was  the  hill  of 
Carthage.  Westward  over  the  hollow  space  of 
waters  swept  the  crescent  horizon  inland,  low 
and  misty,  centred  a  little  to  the  south  by  the 
obscure  white  of  far  Tunis.  Carthage  is  the 
first  thought  of  the  traveller;  his  instant  mem- 
ory is  of  Phoenician  ships,  and  his  imagination 
is  of  Scipio  and  Regulus  —  these  are  the  sights 
they  saw. 


4   NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

The  steamer  plied  up  the  long  canal  that 
makes  the  shallow,  broad  lake  navigable  to  the 
docks  some  miles  beyond;  flamingoes  flew  to 
the  right  and  left  over  the  level  lapping  waters, 
fresh  in  the  raw,  damp,  almost  rainy  air;  and 
gradually  Tunis  drew  in  sight,  like  a  great  white 
flower  on  the  bosom  of  the  sloping  uplands, 
strange,  solitary,  unexpected,  with  minarets  and 
the  island  look  of  a  Moslem  city. 

II 

Barren  enough  was  my  first  acquaintance 
with  the  land  side,  weary,  cheerless,  desolate, 
like  windy  prairies  in  autumn,  uninhabited,  un- 
inhabitable; and  I  was  chilled  to  the  bone  when 
I  came  back  to  the  hotel,  then  in  the  bud  of  its 
first  season.  It  is  more  sober  now,  but  then  it 
had  a  near  cousinship  to  Monte  Carlo;  it  was 
delightfully  irresponsible,  vivacious,  gay.  One 
passed  to  the  picturesque  bar  and  the  cafe,  thick 
with  interesting  groups;  or  with  equal  ease  to 
the  "little  horses"  with  their  ever-dissolving 
banks  of  faces,  a  covey  of  all  nations,  round  the 
bell-timed  play,  and  to  the  vaudeville  stage  with 
gymnasts,  French  acting,  fat  Jewess  dancers, 
and  a  world  lightly  enjoying  itself,  as  it  looked 
from   railed   low  boxes   on   the    spacious   floor 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  5 

—  men,  women,  children,  with  tables,  glasses, 
straws,  and  bright-colored  things  to  drink, 
waiters,  musicians  —  always  a  pretty  scene, 
with  incidents,  and  rich  in  human  relations; 
or  one  went  more  gravely  by  a  stairway  to  the 
privacy  of  baccarat  in  its  upper  seclusion  of 
the  visiting  card.  It  was  a  pleasant  and  polite 
place  wherever  one  might  stroll  about,  and  in 
every  corridor  and  at  all  hours  the  grand  toilette 
of  capitals,  men  and  women  —  even  adventurers 

—  of  the  world.  The  old  beyhc  of  Tunis 
seemed  far  away;  at  least,  one  was  still  in 
Christendom. 

I  stepped  out  on  the  sidewalk  after  dinner, 
on  a  broad  avenue  with  trees.  At  the  brilliant 
crossing  carriages  were  passing  with  drawn 
screens;  and,  as  they  drove  slowly  by,  fingers 
held  back  the  curtains,  and  from  time  to  time 
glimpses  of  women's  figures  were  disclosed  of 
quite  a  different  type  from  any  within  doors  — • 
ladies  of  wealthy  native  families  taking  the  air, 
and  curious  to  see  the  French  streets  by  night. 
So  I  learned  that  it  was  the  eve  of  Leilet-el- 
Kadir,  the  twenty-sixth  of  Ramadan,  the  night 
of  power  commemorating  the  descent  of  the 
Koran  on  earth,  a  grand  Mohammedan  feast; 
and  I  went  forthwith  into  old  Tunis  on  my  first 
voyage   of   discovery.     Festivity    reigned.     On 


6   NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

every  hand  were  lights  of  all  varieties;  the  min- 
arets aloft  were  outlined  with  them;  in  the 
narrow  streets  they  were  as  the  multitude  of 
the  stars  for  number,  colored  and  clustered, 
hung  and  looped  and  festooned,  flaring  and 
lanterned,  a  fine  illumination  in  the  obscurity; 
and  under  them  an  animated  throng  of  all  ages, 
beautifully  dressed  for  the  occasion  —  a  city, 
a  race,  and  a  faith  en  fete. 

I  sat  down  at  last  in  the  cafe-crowded  Place 
Halfouine,  one  of  the  principal  open  spaces  or 
squares  of  the  old  city,  not  large,  and  surrounded 
by  low,  rather  mean,  buildings.  It  was  a  night- 
scene,  closed  in  by  shadows,  the  foreground 
brightened  by  irregularly  placed  open  cafes 
with  tables  outside  and  benches  within,  all  com- 
pletely filled  with  men,  drinking,  smoking,  play- 
ing at  simple  games,  quite  orderly,  without  bois- 
terous noise  or  muscular  disorder,  or  joking  — 
admirable  public  behavior.  It  charmed  by  its 
novelty  —  costumes  and  persons,  mass  without 
individuality  —  the  scene  of  a  new  land.  What 
folly  to  think  that  there  are  no  more  worlds  to 
discover!  The  scene  was  to  me  as  if  no  one 
had  ever  looked  on  it  before.  I  observed  the 
faces,  the  attitudes,  the  doings  of  this  strange 
people  as  if  I  had  just  landed  from  another 
world;   and  I  would  gladly  have  stayed  longer. 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  7 

but,  with  the  early  closing  habits  of  Moslems, 
the  square  began  to  thin,  and  I  went  with  the 
rest  through  the  fast-emptying  street  with  a 
glad  feeling  that  in  a  world,  now  grown  alto- 
gether too  small  and  neighborly,  I  had  hap- 
pened upon  one  last  true  relic  of  the  *'far 
away.*' 

It  was  four  days  later,  however,  that  the 
true  holiday  came,  the  feast  of  rejoicing  after 
Ramadan  is  over  —  Little  Bairam.  It  is  cele- 
brated at  Tunis  with  special  zeal.  The  morn- 
ing streets  w^ere  overflowing  with  men  and  chil- 
dren in  their  best  apparel;  but  the  latter,  in 
particular,  beautifully  attired.  Such  gold  jack- 
ets, such  tiny  burnooses,  such  scarlet  and  crim- 
son, turquoise  and  emerald  —  and  pinks!  Such 
chubby  fat  faces  in  their  barbaric  borders  of 
clothes  —  or  delicate,  refined  features,  stamped 
with  race,  set  off  by  their  greens  and  blues! 
Such  vivacity,  too;  pure  childish  fun  and  plea- 
sure in  a  national  holiday!  There  were  strings 
of  open  carts  of  the  rudest  construction  —  like 
tip-carts  for  gravel  —  completely  filled  with  these 
children  heaped  up  like  nosegays,  their  brilliancy 
of  color  set  off  by  the  rudeness  of  the  common 
cart.  This  seemed  one  of  their  principal  plea- 
sures —  taking  a  ride.  But  there  were  others. 
In  a  packed  cross-street  I  was  addressed  by  two 


8   NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

gallant  lads  of  perhaps  fifteen,  who  were  selling 
tickets  at  an  entrance;  with  faces  and  figures 
full  of  hospitable  welcome  to  the  stranger,  they 
invited  me  in,  and  I  went.  Inside  was  a  small, 
barn-like  theatre  with  a  curtain,  a  stage  and  an 
audience;  and  there  I  saw  "the  shadows,"  pic- 
tures thrown  upon  a  screen,  and  the  histrionic 
art  was  thus  practised  with  lifelike  effect.  I 
had  read  of  "the  shadows,"  but  I  never  ex- 
pected to  see  them.  I  came  out  after  a  while, 
and  the  boys  saluted  me  with  very  cheerful  and 
animated  smiles  as  I  passed  them.  I  spied  an- 
other show  a  little  farther  on;  and  this,  un- 
daunted by  my  former  experience,  I  also  en- 
tered. It  was  the  puppets  —  also  a  traveller's 
treasure-trove  —  the  French  gendarme  was  the 
universal  and  unpitied  victim,  and  the  plots 
were  realistic  incidents  from  things  as  they  are. 
The  audience  was  almost  wholly  of  children, 
from  six  years  or  less  to  twelve  or  more,  many 
of  them  with  nurses  or  attendants;  they  took 
an  active  and  even  excited  interest,  and  did  the 
necessary  reckonings  and  sums  which  the  trans- 
actions on  the  stage  called  for,  and  shouted 
out  the  answers  as  at  a  school  exhibition,  it 
might  be,  though  the  transactions  in  question 
were  not  of  a  sort  ever  shown  at  an  American 
school,  and  would  have  evoked  much  remon- 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  9 

strance;  but  the  children  were  very  happy 
through  it  all,  thoroughly  enjoyed  it,  in  fact. 
I  went  behind  the  curtain  and  saw  the  pup- 
pets engineered;  and  I  left  the  little  the- 
atregoers with  fresh  ideas  of  juvenile  amuse- 
ments. 

So  all  the  morning  I  passed  among  the  gayly 
decked  crowd,  with  one  and  another  small  ad- 
venture, always  handsomely  treated,  aided, 
saluted.  A  people  of  kind  and  gentle  manners, 
old  and  young;  and  I  am  glad  that  I  first  saw 
them  so  fortunately  in  their  days  of  pleasantry 
and  taking  pride  in  their  own.  The  experience 
threw  an  atmosphere  of  cheerfulness  over  the 
land  and  the  people,  and  softened  many  a  darker 
scene  of  their  common  days,  of  their  penury  and 
hardship  —  their  load  of  life.  I  could  always 
think,  even  when  all  was  at  its  worst,  that  they 
still  "had  seasons  that  only  bade  live  and  re- 
joice," when  many  went  bravely  clad  and  fed 
full,  and  the  whole  city  was  vivid  with  a  spirit 
of  general  joy.  The  fixed  expression  of  the 
crowd  was  one  of  resigned  patience  under  habit- 
ual control;  the  gayety,  the  happiness,  the  holi- 
day were  relieved  on  a  grave  background  —  a 
temperament,  a  character,  an  essential  living, 
unknown  to  me,  something  secret,  profound. 
It  was  my  first  true  contact  with  Islam.     One 


10    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

way,  at  least,  by  which  a  rehgion  may  properly 
be  measured  is  by  its  efficient  power  on  those 
who  profess  it;  certainly  the  Moslem  faith  is 
very  effective  on  its  believers;  the  sincerity  of 
that  faith  is  the  first  thing  one  learns  about  it 
in  practical  observation.  How  often  since  then 
have  I  gathered  with  them  at  this  and  other 
fetes,  and  seen  the  carpeted  streets  and  tapestried 
walls,  the  solemn  processions,  the  robes  of  state, 
the  fine  horses,  the  men  and  the  arms,  all  the 
barbaric  display;  illuminations,  fireworks,  pa- 
rades; but  I  have  never  been  so  struck,  as  in 
these  first  Tunisian  days,  with  the  spirit  of 
gentle  happiness  that  made  my  earliest  impres- 
sion of  the  race  as  I  met  it  on  the  shore  of  the 


sea. 


Ill 


Ranging  through  the  country  by  rail,  I  found 
one  of  the  oldest  lands  of  earth  wearing  the 
signs,  familiar  to  my  eyes  years  ago,  of  the 
American  West.  It  seemed,  at  times,  like  an 
hallucination  of  memory  with  odd  differences, 
such  as  one  might  have  in  a  dream.  Now  and 
then  one  came  to  a  larger  and  well-gardened 
station,  some  watering-place  of  the  richer  citi- 
zens in  summer;   or  to  a  thriving  seaport;   but, 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  11 

in  general,  the  stops  were  at  way  stations,  as  in 
all  thinly  populated  districts  —  a  simple  cross- 
ing of  the  long  gray  roads,  with  a  few  buildings 
for  the  business  of  the  line,  vast  spaces  round 
about,  possibly  slightly  improved,  with  fields  or 
orchards  or  little  groves,  a  crowd  of  loafers  hang- 
ing on  the  gates  or  fence  of  the  enclosure  to 
whom  the  arrival  of  the  train  was  the  day's 
event,  a  farm  wagon  of  modern  make,  with 
horses,  awaiting  some  expected  passenger  and 
driving  off  to  some  home  lost  in  the  expanse;  in 
a  word,  the  impression  was  of  colonial  things,  of 
the  opening  up  of  a  country,  of  reclaiming  the 
soil.  What  one  really  saw  everywhere  was  a 
frontier. 

In  the  newspapers  there  was  the  same  absorb- 
ing theme  —  colonization;  the  local  news,  the 
daily  happenings  were  characteristic  of  an 
agricultural,  industrial,  commercial  life  of  the 
nature  of  an  invasion  of  the  waste.  Here  large 
depots  for  machinery  were  rising;  there  men  of 
broad  enterprise,  or  syndicate  companies  had 
planted  olives,  or  corn,  or  vines,  on  a  vast  scale 
over  miles  of  territory;  further  on,  a  new  line 
was  making  accessible  the  phosphate  wealth  of 
Gafsa.  Modern  civilization,  mechanism,  com- 
munication, organized  exploitation,  penetrating 
a  new  country,  was  what  one  felt,  as  if  that 


12    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

region  were  truly  new  like  a  savage  land.  Yet 
how  many  times  civilization,  in  one  or  another 
form,  has  rolled  over  it!  In  reality,  it  is  one  of 
the  most  ancient  beds  of  the  human  torrent, 
bare  and  forsaken  as  it  looks  now.  And  now  it 
is  again  a  new  frontier  —  the  place  of  the  in- 
vasion of  a  new  era  by  a  new  race  with  new 
designs. 

This  impression,  nevertheless,  is  mainly  a 
thing  of  the  mind,  of  recollection  and  observa- 
tion; to  the  eye  it  is  not  so  noticeable,  such  is 
the  extent  of  the  natural  spaces,  the  contour  and 
atmosphere  of  things  held  in  these  far  horizons, 
the  new  temperament  of  that  landscape,  and  so 
characteristically  native  still  is  the  aspect  of  in- 
digenous human  life  not  yet  displaced.  The 
earth  has  the  look  of  the  wild.  Whatever  may 
have  formerly  been  its  culture  and  occupancy,  all 
had  lapsed  back  to  the  primitive;  a  land  of 
plains  —  melancholy  tracts  under  a  gray  sky  or 
vast  empty  spaces  under  a  brilliant  sun  —  edged 
in  far  distance  by  lone  mountains,  caressed  on 
broken  shores  by  a  barren  sea;  full  of  solitude, 
sadness.  Here  and  there  some  great  ruin  stood, 
not  unlike  Stonehenge  on  Salisbury  Plain,  or 
even  cities  of  ruins;  the  land  is  strewn  with 
them  —  temples,  courts,  baths,  cisterns,  floors, 
columns,   reliefs,   arches  of  triumph,   theatres; 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  13 

but  they  seldom  count  to  the  eye.  Antiquity, 
hke  the  frontier,  is  also  a  thing  of  the  mind,  in 
the  main ;  the  past  and  the  future  are  both  mat- 
ter of  reflection,  in  the  background  of  memory 
and  knowledge  it  may  be,  but  not  noticeable  in 
the  general  landscape.  It  is  a  place  where 
human  fate  seems  transitory,  an  insignificant 
detail,  as  on  the  sea  —  or  like  animal  life  in 
nature,  indifferent. 

IV 

Once  on  such  an  excursion  on  the  eastern  sea- 
coast,  the  Tunisian  Sahel,  I  left  Sousse  behind 
in  the  noon  glare,  a  busy,  thriving,  pleasant 
place,  swarming  with  Arab  life  in  its  well-worn 
ancestral  w^ays  and  with  French  enterprise  in 
its  pioneering  glow.  The  old  Saracen  w^all  lay 
behind  me  towered  and  gated,  a  true  mediseval 
girdle  of  defence,  and  I  gazed  back  on  the  white 
city  impearling  its  high  hillside  in  the  right 
Moslem  way,  and  then  settled  myself  to  the 
long  ride  southward  as  I  passed  through  cem- 
eteries, crisscrossed  with  Barbary  fig,  and  by 
gardens  adjoining  the  sea,  and  struck  out  into 
the  plain,  spotted  with  salty  tracts  and  little 
cultivated.  It  is  thus  that  a  ride  on  this  soil 
is  apt  to  begin  —  with  a  cemetery;    it  is  often 


14    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

the  master  note  that  gives  the  mood  to  a  sub- 
sequent landscape,  a  mood  of  sadness  that  is  felt 
to  be  sterile  also,  impregnated  with  fatalism.  A 
Moslem  burying-ground  may  be,  at  rare  places, 
a  garden  of  repose;  a  forsaken  garden  it  is  usu- 
ally, even  when  most  dignified  and  beautiful 
with  its  turbaned  pillars  in  the  thick  cypresses; 
but  it  is  always  a  complete  expression  of  death. 
The  cemetery  lies  outside  at  the  most  used  en- 
trance of  a  town;  and,  as  a  rule,  in  the  country 
it  is  of  a  melancholy  indescribable  —  it  lies 
there  in  so  naked  a  fashion,  a  hopeless  and  hud- 
dled stretch  of  withered  earth  in  swells  and 
hummocks,  hardly  distinguishable  from  com- 
mon dirt  and  debris  —  the  eternal  potter's  field. 
It  is  a  fixed  feature  in  the  Tunisian  landscape, 
which  is  made  of  simple  elements,  whose  con- 
tinuous repetition  gives  its  monotony  to  the 
land.  A  ride  only  rearranges  these  elements 
under  new  lights  and  in  new  horizons. 

Here  the  great  plain  was  the  common  back- 
ground; my  course  to  Sfax  lay  over  it,  broken 
at  first  by  a  blossoming  of  gardens  round  a 
town  or  village,  and  twice  I  came  out  on  the 
sea;  but  always  the  course  was  over  a  plain 
with  elemental  mark  and  quality  —  with  an 
omnipresence  as  of  the  sea  on  a  voyage.  The 
line  between  man's  domain  and  nature  is  as 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  15 

sharply  drawn  on  this  plain  as  on  a  beach; 
where  man  has  not  labored  the  scene  stretches 
out  with  nature  in  full  possession,  as  on  the 
ocean;  his  habitations  and  territory  are  islands. 
Everything  is  seen  relieved  on  great  spaces, 
individualized,  isolated;  fields  of  grain,  green 
and  moving  under  a  strong  land  wind;  or 
olive  groves  —  silvery  gleams  —  on  the  hill- 
sides, clumps  of  trees,  or  long  lines  of  them, 
whole  hillsides,  it  may  be;  or  there  are  gar- 
dens, closed,  secluded,  thickly  planted  with 
pear  or  peach  or  fig  or  other  fruit,  with  vege- 
tables, perhaps,  beneath  and  palms  above. 
The  figure  scenes,  too,  are  of  the  same  recurring 
simplicity  —  a  man  leading  a  spirited  horse  in 
the  street,  a  camel  meagre  and  solemn  and 
solitary  silhouetting  the  sky  anywhere  within 
a  range  of  miles,  boys  in  couples  herding  sheep 
in  the  middle  distances.  The  town  or  village 
emerging  at  long  intervals  is  a  monochord  —  a 
point  of  dazzling  white  far  off,  dissolving  on 
approach  into  low  houses,  a  confused  mass  of 
uneven  roofs  skirting  the  ground  except  where 
the  minaret  and  the  palm  rise  and  unite  it  to 
heaven  —  to  the  fire-veined  evening  sky,  deep 
and  tranquil,  or  the  intense  blue  noon,  or  the 
pink  morning  bloom  of  the  spiritualized  scene 
of  the  dawn.     The  streets  are  silent;   by  the 


16    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

Moorish  cafe  lie  or  sit  or  crouch  motionless 
figures,  sometinies  utterly  dull,  like  logs  on  the 
earth,  or  else  holding  pipes  or  gazing  at  check- 
ers, or  vacant  —  always  somnolent,  statuesque, 
sedentary.  There  are  no  windows,  no  neigh- 
borhood atmosphere  —  only  a  stagnant  exterior. 
The  feeling  of  a  retreat,  of  repose,  of  being  far 
away  is  always  there.  These  towns  have  a 
curious  mixture  of  the  eternal  and  the  ruined 
in  their  first  aspect;  as  of  things  left  by  the 
tide,  derelicts  of  life  all.  A  ride  in  the  Sahel 
is  a  slow,  kaleidoscopic  combination  of  these 
things,  a  reiteration  without  new  meaning  — 
the  town,  the  cemetery,  the  grove,  the  garden, 
the  plain,  the  fields,  camels  and  sheep,  and 
herdboys  —  horizons,  somnolence,  tranquillity. 
What  a  ride!  and  then  to  come  out  on  the  sea 
at  Monastir  and  Mahdia — such  a  homeless  sea! 
There  may  be  boats  with  bending  sails,  the 
fisher's  life,  suggesting  those  strange  outlying 
islands  they  touch  at,  exile  islands  from  long 
ago,  where  Marius  found  hiding,  and  where  the 
Roman  women  of  pleasure  of  the  grand  world 
were  sent  to  live  and  die,  out  of  the  world  — 
still  the  home  of  a  race,  blending  every  strain 
of  ancient  blood.  Mahdia,  once  an  Arab  capital 
and  long  a  seat  of  power  in  different  ages,  is  a 
famous  battle  name  in  Mohammedan  and  cru- 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  17 

sading  and  corsair  annals;  it  stood  many  a 
great  siege  on  its  rocky  peninsula,  in  Norman 
and  other  soldiering  hands,  however  lifeless  it 
may  seem  now;  but  as  one  looks  on  its  di- 
minutive harbor,  a  basin  hewn  in  the  rock,  it 
seems  now  to  speak  rather  of  the  enmity  of 
the  sea  and  the  terror  of  tempest  on  this  dan- 
gerous coast  —  shallow  waters  and  inhospitable 
shores.  History,  human  courage,  was  but  a  wave 
that  broke  over  it,  and  is  gone  like  the  others,  a 
momentary  foam;  but  the  sea  is  always  the 
sea.  Everywhere  one  must  grow  familiar  with 
the  neighboring  coast-line  before  the  sea  will 
lay  off  that  look  of  enmity  it  wears  to  all  at  the 
first  gaze;  it  is  foreign  always  by  nature.  To 
descend  here  at  Mahdia,  and  to  walk  by  its 
waves,  to  hear  its  roll,  to  look  off  to  its  gulfs 
and  hilltops  afar,  however  brilliant  may  be 
the  scene,  is  to  invite  the  deepest  melancholy 
that  the  waste  sea  holds  —  so  meaningless  that 
world  lies  in  its  monotony  all  about.  I  remem- 
bered the  Moorish  prince  who  here,  after  his 
long  victories,  stood  reflecting  on  the  men  who 
were  great  before  him,  and  how  their  glory  was 
gone.  It  is  a  more  desolate  port  now.  One 
gladly  turns  to  the  land  —  and  there  meets  the 
plain,  equally  vaguely  hostile. 

So  I   rode  on  by  the  unceasing  stretch  of 


18    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

the  way,  through  town  and  by  garden  and 
grove,  into  the  ever-enveloping  plain  that 
opened  before.  It  was  like  putting  to  sea  at 
every  fresh  start;  and  late  in  the  afternoon,  on 
the  last  far  crest  of  the  rolling  plain,  I  saw  the 
great  ruin,  El  Djem,  that  rose  with  immense 
commanding  power  and  seemed  to  dominate  a 
world  of  its  own  sterile  territory.  It  is  a  great 
ruin  —  a  colosseum;  arches  still  in  heaven,  and 
piled  and  fallen  rocks  of  the  old  colossal  cirque; 
it  still  keeps  its  massive  and  uplifted  majesty, 
its  Roman  character  of  the  eternal  city  cast 
down  in  the  waste,  its  monumental  splendor  — 
a  hoar  and  solemn  token  of  the  time  when  there 
were  inhabitants  in  this  desolation  to  fill  the 
vast  theatre  on  days  of  festival,  and  the  line 
of  its  subject  highway  stretched  unbroken  to 
Tunis  and  southward,  a  proud,  unending  urban 
way  of  villas,  a  road  of  gardens,  where  now  only 
stagnates  the  salty  plain,  sterile,  lifeless.  The 
hamlet  beside  it  is  hardly  perceptible,  like  a 
mole-hill,  a  mere  trace  of  human  life.  I  sat 
out  the  sunset;  and  after,  under  a  cold,  starry 
sky,  Orion  resplendent  in  the  west  and  the  eve- 
ning star  a  glory,  I  set  off  again  by  the  long  road 
through  the  sparkling  April  darkness  and  a 
wind  that  grew  winter-cold  with  night,  south- 
ward still  —  the  vast  heavens  broken  forth  with 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  19 

innumerable  starry  lights  —  till  after  some  hours 
of  speeding  on  a  route  that  was  without  a  living 
soul,  I  came  again  on  belated  groups  of  walking 
Bedouins  and  fragrant  miles  of  gardens  dark  by 
the  roadway  and  many  a  thick  olive  grove, 
and  drew  up  at  Sfax. 


V 

Sfax  is  the  southern  capital  of  Tunisia.  It 
has  always  been  an  important  site,  and  under 
the  new  rule  of  the  French  thrives  and  prospers 
commercially,  in  true  frontier  fashion,  as  the 
chief  market  and  base  of  the  country  being 
opened  up  in  the  inland  behind  it  whose  sea- 
port it  is.  It  is  also  an  old  Mohammedan 
stronghold,  and  its  inherited  life  and  customs 
go  on,  as  at  Sousse,  in  the  immemorial  Arab 
ways.  I  remember  it  as  the  city  of  the  olive 
and  the  sponge.  In  the  early  morning  light 
the  open  spaces  about  the  market  were  littered 
with  young  boys  at  their  open-air  breakfast, 
which  may  be  seen  at  most  Mediterranean  sea- 
ports on  the  Moslem  side  —  the  vender  beside 
his  cooking  apparatus,  the  boys  with  saucers 
of  soup  or  sops  of  bread,  and  on  all  sides  the 
beginnings  of  labor;  but  all  this  meagre  human 
life  was  framed   in   an  exquisite  marine  view 


20    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

beyond.  The  wharf  was  thickly  lined  with  the 
strange-looking  boats  of  the  sponge-fishers,  their 
Greek  flags  at  half-mast  in  honor  of  Good  Fri- 
day, their  sailors  in  Albanian  costumes,  their 
gear  heaping  the  open  spaces  with  ropes  and 
nets  and  endless  tackle.  It  was  all  charming, 
one  of  the  vignettes  of  travel  that  will  haunt 
the  memory  for  years  —  the  odors,  the  little 
tasks,  the  look  of  the  toil  of  the  sea,  the  sponges 
in  dark  heaps,  the  blue,  limpid  morning  air 
crossed  with  strange  spars  and  ropes,  and  the 
host  of  fluttering  flags. 

Later  in  the  day  I  got  its  companion  scene 
from  a  hilltop  some  miles  south  of  the  city, 
whence  one  commands  a  view  of  olive  orchards 
sloping  down  in  one  vast  grove,  in  lines  of  reg- 
ular intervals,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  and 
lost  to  sight  on  all  sides  with  nothing  to  break 
the  expanse  —  only  millions  of  olive-trees  reg- 
ularly planted,  filling  the  entire  broad,  circling 
landscape.  A  little  tower  surmounts  the  hill- 
top and  from  its  round  apex  one  surveys  the 
whole;  the  sense  of  this  dot-like  centre  en- 
hances the  impression  that  the  scene  makes  of 
a  living  weft  of  mathematical  lines,  like  an 
endless  spider's  web.  It  is  a  unique  sight.  The 
geometrical  effect  is  curious,  like  an  immense 
garden-diagram;    the  similarity  of   the   round, 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  21 

bullet-like  heads  of  the  trees,  all  alike  in  shape, 
is  a  novel  trait  of  monotony;  the  silver-gray  of 
the  foliage,  mixed  with  the  reddish  tones  of  the 
soil,  gives,  in  so  broad  a  view,  a  ground  earth 
color  quite  new  to  the  eye;  and  the  sense  of 
multitude  in  which,  nevertheless,  individuality 
remains  persistent  and  acutely  distinct  on  so 
vast  a  scale  makes  an  indelible  impression. 

VI 

I  SEEK  in  vain  the  secret  of  the  charm  that 
Tunis  lays  upon  me.  Coming  back  to  it,  one 
feels  something  intimate  in  the  city,  such  as 
there  is  in  places  long  lived  in  and  cherished, 
impregnated  with  memories,  subtilized  by  for- 
gotten life  and  feeling.  It  has  sunk  deeper 
into  the  senses,  the  affections.  Can  the  charm 
be  merely  its  soothing  air,  its  weather,  which, 
after  all,  is  our  physical  element?  It  has  a 
marvellous  sky;  all  hues  that  are  celestial  and 
live  in  heaven  are  there.  What  clarity!  Its 
changeable  blues  excite  and  call  the  eye  from 
hour  to  hour;  and  on  rainy  days  its  grays  are 
soft,  enveloping  mantles  for  the  sight.  Its  pe- 
culiar trait  is  a  greenish  tint  in  the  blue,  per- 
vasive but  not  defined,  an  infusion  of  clear 
emerald,  translucent,  such  as  one  sees  in  winter 


22    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

sunsets  in  New  England;  but  here  in  early- 
summer  you  will  distinguish  it  at  high  noon, 
after  the  rainless  days  of  late  spring.  Tra- 
dition associates  heat  with  this  coast,  as  with 
the  Mediterranean  generally;  but  that  is  an 
illusion  of  the  foreigner.  Tunis  is  often  chilly, 
bitterly  cold  at  times,  though  without  the  fall 
of  snow;  it  lies  under  the  heights  of  the  Atlas, 
and  the  winds  bring  down  the  snow-chill  on 
their  wings.  I  remember  one  February  when 
there  were  no  trains  from  Algiers  for  five  days, 
the  snow  blocking  the  road;  it  lay,  at  some 
places  on  the  line,  nine  feet  deep.  But  what- 
ever may  be  the  weather,  the  atmospheric  charm 
remains;  it  is  soothing,  and  has  narcotic  quality. 
A  fine  landscape  in  fine  weather  is  always 
captivating  and  assimilates  the  traveller  to  the 
land.  One  is  always  at  home  in  the  sun;  and 
a  noble  view  finds  a  friend  in  every  eye.  One 
or  two  such  experiences  will  make  the  fortune 
of  a  whole  journey  and  after  a  while  be  its 
whole  memory.  But  in  some  regions,  some 
cities,  the  spell  is  perpetual;  it  is  so  at  Tunis. 
The  prospect  is  broad,  and  wherever  one  turns 
the  eye  wanders  off  delightfully.  The  most 
complete  view  is  from  the  western  hill,  where 
is  a  beautiful  great  park  of  rolling  land  with 
woods  whence  you  will  see  the  white  city  south- 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  23 

ward;  it  lies  like  a  great  lily  on  its  pads  of  green 
background,  with  its  motionless  blue  waters 
round  about  —  a  lake-country  scene;  level  waters 
like  a  flood,  all  floored  and  streaked  with  purple 
and  blue  bands  and  reaches  —  a  water  prairie 
—  to  where  Carthage  gleams  white  on  its  own 
green  hill,  amid  an  horizon  of  snowy  villages 
dazzling  in  the  sun;  and  between,  nearer,  iso- 
lated roofs  that  flash  emerging  from  their  ob- 
scure green  gardens  and  tree-clumps,  here  and 
there;  farther  still  to  the  southeast,  as  the  eye 
travels  out  over  the  long  lake  into  the  gulf 
and  the  sea,  rises  a  mass  of  mountain  blues  that 
bound  the  entrance  to  the  land  and  its  harbors. 
It  is  a  view  fit  for  a  Greek  amphitheatre. 

Wherever  you  go,  you  are  always  coming  out 
on  these  massive,  spacious,  beautifully  colored 
prospects,  white  strips  of  city  or  village  amid 
the  spring,  set  in  the  master  tone  of  blue  that 
envelopes  and  combines  them  —  sky,  and  lake, 
and  sea,  themselves  infinitely  changeable  with 
the  light  and  the  distance  and  the  hour.  Even 
in  the  most  unexpected  places  Heaven  will 
open  these  far-off  ways  over  a  new  land.  I 
remember  going  into  an  obscure  and  blind  street, 
in  the  Arab  quarter,  among  buildings  in  all 
stages  of  apparent  decay.  I  lifted  the  knocker 
at  the  lovely,  nail-studded  door  of  an  ancient- 


24    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

looking  house,  and  passed  at  once  into  an  inner 
court  with  a  fountain,  beautifully  decorated, 
cool,  shadowy,  exquisite  in  repose  and  the  sense 
of  luxury;  and  I  was  led  on  through  a  maze  of 
stairways  and  passages  till  I  came  out  on  a 
large  room  below  the  roof  with  a  balcony;  and 
stepping  forward,  I  saw  unrolled  as  if  by  en- 
chantment the  whole  sea- view.  There  must  be 
many  such  commanding  points  of  vantage  in 
the  houses  on  the  crest  of  the  thickly  built  hill 
—  old  Tunis,  where  the  Arabs  live.  From  this 
station  I  overlooked  the  lower  city  with  all  its 
roofs  and  streets.  The  multitude  of  green-tiled 
roofs  on  different  levels  made  the  color-ground, 
whence  rose  the  numerous  low,  white  domes,  the 
slender  minarets  also  touched  with  green  or 
tipped  with  golden  balls,  the  greater  domes  of 
the  mosques,  the  mass  of  the  citadel;  broad 
French  faubourgs  and  avenues  were  enclosing 
and  defining  lines,  with  irregular  masses  of 
foliage,  and  deep,  narrow  streets  sank  in  the 
near  scene,  full  of  their  native  life.  It  was 
an  architectural  wilderness  of  form  and  color, 
arresting,  vivifying,  oriental  in  mass,  feeling 
and  detail,  with  the  suggestion  of  a  dream,  of 
evanescence,  and  round  it  was  poured  on  all 
sides  the  still  blue  element  —  sky,  ocean,  air. 
In  Tunis,  I  noticed,  everything  seemed  to  end 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  25 

thus,  in  something  beyond,  in  a  mood;  Hfe 
constantly  distilled  its  dream,  and  it  was  a 
dream  of  the  senses. 

The  senses  are  constantly  appealed  to;  they 
are  kept  awake,  alert,  attentive,  and  they  are 
fed;  they  have  their  joys.  We  do  not  habit- 
ually use  our  senses  for  joy;  and  this  is  a  part 
of  the  spell  of  Tunis,  that  there,  under  a  Southern 
sky,  the  senses  come  into  their  own  again.  It 
is  not  merely  the  instinct  of  curiosity  that  is 
kept  active  by  an  ensemble  so  variously  novel 
and  insistent  —  for  example,  these  pavilioned 
minarets,  square  with  a  cube  above,  ending  in  a 
green  pyramid,  or  else  octagonal  in  shape  with 
the  gallery  and  its  awning,  tipped  by  the  three 
gold  balls  and  crescent  —  haunting  one  like  a 
strange  sky;  or  the  same  mstinct  crudely  ex- 
cited by  the  ensemble  of  a  population  so  foreign 
in  physiognomy,  garb,  and  physical  behavior  as 
the  Arab  in  its  multifarious  aspects,  its  color 
and  movement,  all  the  unaccustomed  surface 
of  life.  A  street  in  old  Tunis  is  truly  seen  only 
when  there  is  no  one  in  it;  it  is  then  that  it  is 
most  impressive  and  yields  up  its  spirit.  What 
privacy!  those  blank  walls!  those  rare  high 
windows  beautifully  set!  those  discreet  hang- 
ing balconies  of  latticed  wood  and  iron!  those 
nail-studded  doors  in  exquisite  patterns,  that 


26    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

seem  to  have  been  rarely  opened!  An  old 
house,  set  in  some  deep  forest,  is  not  more  re- 
tired. And,  if  one  passes  within  —  silence,  and 
soft  footfalls,  and  refinement  of  all  sense-im- 
pressions, the  constant  presence  of  delicately- 
moulded  handiwork,  tiles  cooling  to  the  eye, 
wrought  stucco,  carved  wood;  and  in  those 
interiors,  with  their  beautiful  ceilings  and  wain- 
scoting, are  columns  that  seem  of  pagan  purity, 
fountains  as  of  woodland  solitude,  courts  of 
garden  peace.  It  is  wonderful,  how  this  effect 
of  harborage  and  seclusion  has  been  attained 
by  an  art  so  simple  —  flowers,  water,  plaster, 
wood,  traceries,  colored  tiles.  The  city  must 
be  full  of  beautiful  objects  of  this  old  art.  It  is 
not  in  this  or  that  house  only,  nor  in  the  public 
museums  where  rare  examples  are  collected 
and  massed,  that  one  feels  this  artistic  quality 
in  the  old  race.  It  is  felt  in  the  handicrafts 
everywhere,  the  decoration  of  the  surfaces,  the 
enamelling,  the  gilding,  the  effort  and  liking 
for  what  is  wrought  in  lovely  patterns  and  re- 
lieved work  of  every  description.  There  is  a 
detail  in  the  Tunisian  sense  of  beauty,  an  omni- 
present and  conscious  decorative  spirit,  some- 
thing native  and  human.  It  is  not  only  in  the 
palace,  but  in  the  street,  as  one  treads  the 
narrow  ways,  and  looks  into  the  bright  shops. 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  27 

and  loiters  in  strange  corners.  It  is  an  art  of 
the  senses  —  decoration  is  most  obviously  that. 
Rooted  in  barbaric  taste?  possibly;  but  most 
things  human  are  rooted  in  barbarism.  Un- 
intellectual?  perhaps,  in  the  European  sense. 
Unemotional .f^  certainly  not  on  the  European 
scale  of  the  emotions.  Not  developed  from 
the  beauty  of  the  human  form?  of  course. 
But  there  is  a  spirit  of  the  senses  as  there  is  a 
spirit  of  the  intellect;  and  it  has  its  own  art, 
a  distillation  of  its  life,  as  I  intimated  in  speak- 
ing of  the  landscape  that  leads  one  into  the  mood 
of  a  dream  —  a  dream  of  the  senses.  This  art 
is  akin  to  that  landscape  —  it  is  of  the  life  of 
the  senses;  and  the  Arabs  were  always  frankly 
a  sensual  race.  And,  however  it  be,  the  city 
has  an  artistic  temperament,  to  me;  it  has  no 
factory  qualities  in  its  aspect,  its  wares,  or  its 
people;  it  is  yet  virgin  of  the  future,  a  dying 
perfume  of  the  past.  This  flavor  that  I  find 
in  its  art  is  not  Arabian,  though  it  flowered  from 
that  desert  root;  it  is  Andalusian,  and  comes 
from  the  skill  and  temperament  of  those  old 
exiles  who  were  driven  out  from  the  southern 
shores  of  Spain  in  successive  waves  of  the 
Moorish  emigration,  each  in  turn  sowing  broad- 
cast seeds  of  the  most  exquisite  Arab  art  all 
along  the  shores  of  North  Africa,  and  richly 


28    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

here  at  Tunis.  It  was  an  hereditary  art,  in 
famines  of  builders,  wood-carvers,  stone-cutters, 
stucco-moulders,  painters,  gilders,  dyers,  em- 
broiderers, leather- workers,  damaskeen-workers, 
illuminators  —  the  Tunisian  arts  of  daily  life, 
that  gave  to  life  that  brilliant  and  exquisite 
surface  in  dress,  utensils,  interiors,  and  also  broad 
urban  artistic  effects  of  luxury  in  the  look  of  its 
commerce,  the  display  of  its  multicolored  crafts, 
and  the  vistas  of  its  minaret-haunted  sky. 
Tunis,  in  fact,  is  not  altogether  native,  not  of 
the  pure  desert  blood;  from  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury well  into  the  times  of  the  Renaissance  it 
had  a  flavor  not  unlike  that  of  a  Greek  colony 
in  Sicily  or  on  old  Italian  coasts;  it  was  grafted 
with  the  flower  of  Andalusian  culture,  trans- 
planted in  adversity  and  flourishing  on  the 
African  soil  —  blooming,  perishing,  and  leaving 
this  exquisite  memory  of  itself,  this  intuition  of 
vanished  refinement  and  elegance,  like  a  per- 
fume. 

To  this  Andalusian  infusion  is  also  traced  the 
charm  of  the  manners  of  the  Tunisians,  that 
gentleness  of  breeding,  softness,  and  urbanity, 
blended  with  an  immovable  dignity,  which  is  so 
indescribable  a  racial  trait.  It  is  not  the  least 
foreign  thing  about  them,  and  adds  to  the  fond 
of  mystery  that  they  exude;  for,  notwithstand- 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  29 

ing  all  that  can  be  seen  or  told,  or  gleaned  from 
the  past,  mystery  is  of  the  essence  of  the  trav- 
eller's impression  at  his  first  contact  with  the 
Arab  race.  It  is  a  silent  landscape,  a  speechless 
folk,  an  incommunicable  civilization;  it  is  not 
only  the  closed  mosque,  the  secluded  house, 
the  taciturn  figures  strange  in  garb  and  pose, 
immovably  contemplative;  but  their  life  —  all 
that  they  are  —  seems  a  closed  book  in  an  un- 
known tongue,  a  scroll  unrolled  but  unintelli- 
gible. The  feeling  of  racial  mystery  is  intense, 
and  all  external  impressions  lead  the  traveller 
finally  back  to  that  —  the  insoluble  soul  of  the 
race.  It  is  not  merely  Islam.  These  shores 
from  the  dawn  of  knowledge  have  been  one  of 
the  most  fertile  couches  of  the  animal,  man;  here 
the  young  barbarian  has  been  born  and  bred, 
and  passed  away,  through  all  the  centuries, 
and  every  civilization  of  the  West  has  been 
seeded  in  conquest,  and  has  flowered  in  cities, 
typical  capitals,  and  withered  away,  leaving 
among  the  native  race  its  ruins  in  their  fields, 
in  their  blood,  on  their  faces  —  like  the  Chris- 
tian cross  still  tattooed  on  Kabyle  foreheads. 
It  is  a  race  that  assimilates  but  is  not  assimi- 
lated. It  has  taken  the  color  and  form,  more 
or  less  impregnated  with  the  spirit,  of  the  genius 
of  Carthage,  Rome,  Byzantium,  Islam,  France; 


30    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

it  has  felt  the  impact  of  Greek,  Norman,  Span- 
iard; but  it  was  ever  a  race  of  inexhaustible  re- 
sistant power,  independent,  tenacious,  rebellious. 
It  was  never  submerged  or  exterminated.  It  is 
a  fine  race.  Tunis  is  one  of  its  cosmopolitan 
cities,  where  it  has  drunk  of  every  foreign  stream 
and  influence,  has  been  civilized,  softened,  in- 
formed —  a  city  of  the  various  Mediterranean 
world,  with  great  colonies  of  other  folk  in  it, 
Italians,  Jews,  Maltese  —  a  New  York,  as  it 
were,  on  its  own  scale.  In  old  Tunis,  Arabized 
as  it  is,  the  desert  race  is  itself  only  an  infusion; 
yet  so  persistent  is  the  ideal  of  race  on  its  own 
soil,  and  so  nomadic  is  the  provincial  popula- 
tion, that  one  feels  the  presence  of  that  old 
racial  soul,  rightly  or  wrongly,  into  which  the 
strength  of  the  desert  and  the  mountains  has 
passed,  which  never  breathed  the  breath  of  Eu- 
rope, which  remains  in  its  own  loneliness  as  in  a 
fastness.  It  attracts  and  perplexes  the  human 
mind  that  would  fain  make  acquaintance  with 
it,  but  is  oppressed  by  a  feeling  of  impotence. 
And  the  exquisite  personal  demeanor  of  the  Tu- 
nisians is  enigmatic  in  its  impression;  it  is  like 
the  charm  of  some  Chinese  painting  or  scroll 
that  only  emphasizes  the  unintelligibility,  the 
incommunicability  of  the  too  variant  spiritual 
past.     With  such  delightful  manners,  such  iden- 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  31 

tical  refinements  of  taste,  it  would  be  so  easy 
to  be  friends!  But  no;  it  is  more  rational  to 
think  of  it  all  as  an  artistic  growth  of  a  foreign 
culture,  a  part  of  the  lovely  Andalusian  inheri- 
tance of  the  land. 

To  a  mind  with  a  historical  background  it  is 
odd  to  find  Tunis  so  completely  a  modern  city. 
The  Andalusian  tradition  is  unconcentrated,  and 
slight  in  its  elements  of  reality,  in  things;  its 
full  experience  is  rather  an  imaginative  memory; 
and  of  the  times  before  that  there  is  nothing  left. 
In  the  suburban  country  there  are  more,  though 
few,  relics  of  past  ages,  but  there  the  memory 
works  more  freely.  One  recalls,  looking  off  to 
the  sea-towering  Mountain  of  the  Two  Horns, 
that  on  one  of  those  peaks  rose  the  ancient  tem- 
ple of  Baal.  The  harbors  of  Carthage  are  fas- 
cinating to  the  eye  of  the  imagination;  but  the 
specific  remains  there  are  scanty  and  mediocre; 
they  arouse  no  reaction  deeper  than  thought; 
and  in  the  museum  of  Carthage  one  dwells 
most  on  the  curious  fact  that  what  little  has 
come  down  to  us  of  that  far-off  life  has  found  its 
way  only  by  the  grave  itself;  here,  as  in  so 
many  places,  the  tomb  has  been  the  chief  con- 
servator of  life  in  its  material  aspects  and  what 
may  be  inferred  from  them  of  the  soul  of  dead 
populations.     It  is  rather  in  the  neighborhood 


32    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

of  the  Cathedral  that  memory  expands,  for  be- 
side the  near  home  of  the  White  Brothers,  who 
have  spread  their  mantles  and  left  their  bones 
throughout  the  Sahara,  a  noble  mission  nobly 
done,  here  survives  the  only  recorded  anecdote  of 
the  history  of  this  ridge,  that  must  have  been  the 
place  of  innumerable  tragedies  —  the  marvel- 
lously vivid  Christian  story  of  Saint  Louis's 
death.  The  narrative  is  as  fresh  and  poignant  as 
if  it  were  written  yesterday;  and  on  the  spot  one 
likes  to  remember  that  the  chivalrous  and  good 
French  crusader  and  king  is  a  Moslem  as  well 
as  a  Christian  saint.  It  is  a  symbol  of  peace 
and  conciliation.  The  past,  however,  is  here  a 
barren  field.  Antiquity  is  felt,  not  in  the  sur- 
vival of  its  monuments,  but  in  the  sense  of  the 
utter  waste,  the  annihilation  of  the  past,  the 
extinction  that  has  overtaken  all  that  human 
life  and  its  glory  and  struggle  —  Punic,  Roman, 
Visigoth ic  —  the  emptiness  of  the  place  of  their 
battles,  religions,  pleasures,  buildings,  and  tombs. 
It  is  all  debris ;  it  is  of  the  slightest  —  little 
archaeological  heaps  and  pits  in  a  vast  horizon  of 
silent  sky  and  sea.  The  mind  becomes  merely 
pessimistic,  surveying  the  scene;  the  mood  of 
fatalism  invades  it  —  the  mood  of  the  frozen 
moon  and  the  solar  catastrophe  —  floods  of  the 
eternal  nothingness  —  a  mood  of  the  pure  in- 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  33 

tellect;  and  one  is  glad  to  come  back  to  some 
nook  like  Ariana,  a  village  midway  between 
Carthage  and  Tunis,  where  ruin  becomes  again 
romantic  and  human.  The  very  roses  bloom 
there  as  in  a  deserted  garden  of  long  ago.  It 
was  there  that  the  Ilafsides,  the  rulers  of  the 
golden  age  of  Tunis  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
had  their  country-seats  —  fair  as  the  paradise 
at  Roccada,  where  one  "was  gay  without  cause 
and  smiled  without  a  reason"  —  surrounded  by 
gardens,  with  great  lakes  shadowed  by  pine  and 
cypress,  and  gleaming  with  kiosks  lined  with 
marble  and  faience,  with  ceilings  of  sculptured 
wood  gilded  and  painted,  and  cooled  by  the 
fresh  waters  of  many  fountains.  The  love  of  the 
country  was  always  a  trait  here  —  an  Arab 
trait  —  the  rich  like  to  get  out  of  the  city  to 
some  place  of  quiet,  privacy  and  repose,  such  as 
La  Marsa  to-day  by  the  sea  near  Carthage. 
The  sense  of  the  reposeful  country  mingles  with 
that  of  the  beautiful  city  in  the  past  as  well  as 
now;  and  the  Haf sides  were  great  civilizers, 
builders,  favorers  of  trade,  patrons  of  the  arts 
and  of  science.  Their  works  and  their  gardens 
are  gone  alike.  Time  drives  his  ploughshare 
often  and  deep  in  an  African  city;  and  it  is  not 
alone  on  the  green  and  shining  levels  of  the 
suburban  country,  with  its  great  spaces  and  im- 


34    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

perial  memories,  where  every  maritime  and 
migratory  race  has  written  some  half-obHterated 
line  of  history,  that  the  mountains  look  on  the 
sea,  and  there  is  a  great  silence;  but  ruin  is  a 
near  neighbor  in  the  city  as  well.  How  many 
nooks  and  corners,  full  of  the  romance  of  places 
left  to  decay!  That,  too,  is  an  Arab  trait:  to 
leave  the  old  to  decay  and  forgetfulness.  It  is 
natural  that  things  should  die,  and  be  let  lie 
where  they  fall.     Oblivion  is  never  far  off. 

What  lassitude  at  last!  Is  it  only  the  nerve- 
soothing  weather,  which  cradles  and  lulls,  week 
after  week,  the  wearied  Western  mind?  Is  it 
only  a  renaissance  of  the  senses,  coming  into 
their  own,  restored  and  vivified  with  strange 
forms  and  colors,  accepting  the  impermanence 
of  things  human,  and  content  to  adorn  and  refine 
the  sensual  moment,  to  withdraw  and  enjoy? 
or  is  it  a  new  world,  a  new  mode  of  human 
life,  with  its  own  perceptions  and  intuitions  and 
valuations,  a  new  form  of  the  protean  existence 
of  men  on  the  earth,  with  another  memory, 
psychology,  experience?  Whatever  it  be  it  is 
a  spell  that  grows. 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  35 


VII 


I  LIKE  to  pass  my  afternoons  in  the  shop  of 
the  perfumer  in  old  Tunis.  I  come  by  covered 
ways,  where  the  sunlight  sifts  through  old 
rafters  on  stained  walls  and  worn  stones,  and 
soon  discern  in  the  softened  darkness  the  low, 
small  columns  wound  with  alternate  stripes  of 
red  and  green  —  bright  clustered  colors;  down 
the  winding  way  of  dimmed  light  in  the  narrow 
street  opens  on  either  side  the  row  of  shallow 
shops,  shadowy  alcoves  of  bright  merchandise; 
and  there  in  the  heart  of  old  Tunis,  each  in  his 
niche,  canopied  by  his  trade  and  seeming  an 
emanation  of  the  things  he  sells,  sit  the  per- 
fumers. A  throng  passes  by,  now  dense,  now 
thin  —  passes  forever,  in  crowds,  in  groups,  in 
solitude,  rarely  speaking;  and  over  against  the 
silent  movement  sit  the  merchants  —  tranquil 
figures  in  perfumed  boxes  —  whose  business 
seems  one  long  repose.  A  languid  scent  loads 
the  dusky  air. 

Just  opposite  the  venerable  Mosque  of  the 
Olive,  an  isle  of  sanctity  still  uncrossed  by  the 
heathen  Frankish  sea,  right  under  the  shadow 
of  its  silence-guarded  doors,  stands  and  has  stood 
for  centuries  the  shop  where  I  love  to  lounge 


36    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

away  hours  that  have  no  attribute  of  time.  My 
host  —  I  may  well  call  him  so,  we  are  old  ac- 
quaintances now  —  salutes  me,  his  robe  of  fad- 
ing hues  detaching  the  figure  from  the  back- 
ground as  he  rises;  his  serene  face  lightens  with 
a  smile,  his  stately  form  softens  with  a  gesture, 
he  speaks  a  word,  and  I  sit  down  on  the  narrow 
bench  at  the  side,  and  light  the  cigarette  he  has 
proffered,  while  his  only  son  quickly  commands 
coffee.  How  well  I  remember  years  ago  when 
the  child's  soft  Arab  eyes  first  looked  into  mine! 
He  is  taller  now,  beautifully  garbed  in  an  em- 
broidered burnoose;  and  he  sits  by  me,  and 
talks  in  low  tones.  What  a  relief  it  is,  just  to 
be  here!  What  an  ablution!  The  very  air  is 
courtesy.  There  is  no  need  to  talk;  and  we  sit, 
we  three,  and  smoke  our  cigarettes,  and  sip  our 
coffee,  with  now  and  then  a  word,  and  regard 
the  street. 

A  motley  street,  like  the  bridge  at  Stamboul 
—  a  provincial  form  of  that  unfathomable  sea 
of  human  faces;  and,  here  as  there,  an  un- 
known w^orld  in  miniature,  diverse,  novel,  bril- 
liant —  the  African  world.  The  native  predom- 
inates, with  here  and  there  a  flash  of  foreign 
blood,  round-faced  Sicilians,  Spaniards  whose 
faces  seem  in  arms,  French  in  uniforms;  but 
always  the  native  —  every  strain  of  the  littoral 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  37 

and  the  highland,  every  tint  of  the  desert  sun: 
black-bearded  Moors  of  Morocco,  vindictive 
visages;  fat  Jews  of  Djerba  laughing;  negroes 
—  boys  of  Fezzan  or  black  giants  of  the  Soudan; 
Arabs  of  every  skin,  hints  of  Gothic  and  Vandal 
blood  and  the  old  blond  race  long  before  all, 
resolute  Kabyles,  fair  Chaouia,  Touaregs  with 
white-wrapped  faces,  caravan  men,  Berber  and 
Bedouin  of  all  the  land;  women,  too,  veiled  or 
with  children  at  the  open  breast.  That  group 
of  Tunisian  dandies  —  how  they  stroll !  olive 
faces,  inexpressive,  with  the  jonquil  stuck  over 
the  ear,  swinging  little  canes,  clad  in  fine  bur- 
nooses  of  pale  blues  or  dying  greens  or  ashy  rose ! 
Those  bare-legged  Bedouins,  lean  shoulders 
looped  in  earth -brown  folds  —  how  they  walk ! 
Every  moment  brings  a  new  challenge  to  the 
eye.  What  life  histories !  what  unspeaking  faces ! 
how  closed  a  world!  and  my  eyes  rest  on  the 
shut  gates  of  the  ancient  Mosque  of  the  Olive 
over  against  me;  I  feel  the  spell  of  the  unknown 
sealed  in  that  faith,  this  life  —  the  spell  of  a 
new  life  of  the  spirit  of  man,  the  mystery  of  a 
new  earth-life  of  his  body. 

One  falls  into  revery  and  absent-mindedness 
here,  as  elsewhere  one  falls  asleep;  but  not  for 
long.  A  lady,  closely  veiled,  stands  in  the  shop 
with  her  shorter,  low-browed  attendant.     I  hear 


38    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

low  syllables  softly  murmured;  I  am  aware  of 
a  drop  of  perfume  rubbed  like  dew  on  the  back 
of  her  hand  just  below  the  small  fingers,  not  too 
slim;  I  watch  the  fall  of  the  precious,  twinkling 
liquid  in  the  faceted  bottle;  I  mark  the  delicate 
handling  of  the  small  balances.  It  is  like  a  pic- 
ture in  a  dream,  so  still,  so  vivid  in  the  semi- 
darkness  of  the  booth.  She  is  gone,  and  the 
fancy  wanders  after  her  —  whither?  The  boy's 
taleb,  his  teacher  of  the  mosque  school,  passing, 
sits  down  for  a  moment  —  an  alert  figure,  scru- 
tinizing, intelligent,  energetic.  There  has  been 
some  school  excitement,  some  public  commo- 
tion; master  and  boy  both  scan  the  last  paper 
with  eagerness.  I  ask  about  the  boy's  lessons; 
but  with  a  kind  look  at  my  young  friend,  and  a 
half  reply  to  me,  he  puts  the  question  aside,  as 
if  one  should  not  say  pleasant  things  in  a  boy's 
hearing  too  much.  He  is  soon  off  on  his  affairs; 
and  other  friends  of  the  shop  come  and  go,  not 
too  often,  some  hearty,  some  subtle,  but  all 
cordial,  merchants  who  would  woo  me  away 
to  other  shops  behind  whose  seemingly  narrow 
spaces  lies  the  wealth  of  great  houses  —  oh,  not 
to  buy,  but  only  to  view  silken  stuffs,  trifles  of 
wrought  silver,  things  begemmed,  inlaid  sword 
and  pictured  leather,  brass,  mosaic,  horn,  mar- 
vels of  the  strong  and  deft  brown  Arab  hand  in 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  39 

immemorial  industries;  the  wealth  of  a  large 
world  is  nigh,  when  I  please  —  it  is  but  a  step 
here  to  Samarcand  or  Timbuctoo;  but  I  say, 
lightly,  *' Another  day." 

I  love  better  to  sit  here,  flanked  by  the  huge 
wax  tapers,  overhung  by  the  five-fingered  groups 
of  colored  candles,  amid  the  curiously  shaped 
glasses  and  mysterious  boxes,  the  gold  filagree, 
the  facets,  the  ivory  eggs  —  and  to  breathe, 
only  to  breathe,  diffused  hidden  scents  of  the 
rose  and  the  violet  —  jasmine,  geranium  —  es- 
sences of  all  flowers,  all  gardens,  all  odorous 
things,  till  life  itself  might  seem  the  perfumed 
essence  of  existence  and  the  sensual  world  only 
an  outer  dusk.  Oh,  the  delightful  narcotism! 
I  w  as  ever  too  much  the  Occidental  not  to  think 
even  in  my  dream  —  I  am  conscious  of  the  feel- 
ing through  all  —  "What  am  I,  an  alien,  here?" 
But  it  is  sweet  to  be  here,  to  have  peace,  and 
gentleness,  and  courtesy,  young  trust  and  brave 
respect,  and  breeding;  it  is  balm.  The  dark- 
ness falls;  the  passer-by  grows  rare;  it  is 
closing  time.  There  is  a  drop  for  my  hand  now, 
for  good-by.  The  boy  companions  me  to  the 
limit  of  old  Tunis.  It  is  good  night.  It  is  a  de- 
parture —  as  if  some  shore  were  left  behind.  It 
is  a  nostalgia  —  a  shadowy  perception  that  some- 
thing more  of  life  has  escaped,  of  the  irretriev- 


40    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

able  thing,  gone,  like  something  flown  from  the 
hand.  And  as  I  come  under  the  Gate  of 
France  into  the  lights  of  the  brilliant  avenue,  I 
find  again  him  I  had  eluded,  whom  I  heard  as 
the  voice  of  one  standing  without,  saying: 
"What  am  I,  an  ahen,  here?"  —  I  am  again  the 
old  European. 

VIII 

Quick  music  comes  down  the  evening  street 
—  the  clatter  of  cavalry  —  the  beautiful  rhythm 
of  horses'  backs  —  flash  of  French  uniforms  so 
harmonized  with  the  African  setting  —  spahis, 
tirailleurs,  guns  —  a  gallant  and  lively  scene  in 
the  massed  avenue!  I  love  the  French  soldiers 
in  Africa;  but  it  is  with  a  deeper  feeling  than 
mere  martial  exhilaration  that  one  sees  them 
to-night,  for  this  is  an  annual  fete-day,  and 
their  march  commemorates  the  entry  of  the 
French  troops  into  Tunis.  One  involuntarily 
looks  at  the  faces  of  the  natives  in  the  crow^ds  — 
impassible.  But  the  old  European  cannot  but 
feel  a  thrill  at  the  sight  of  France,  the  leader  of 
our  civilization,  again  taking  charge  of  the  un- 
tamed and  reluctant  land  and  its  intractable 
people  to  which  every  mastering  empire  of  the 
North,    from    the    dawn    of    our    history,    has 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  41 

brought  in  vain  the  force  of  its  arms  and  the 
light  of  its  intelligence.  The  hour  has  come 
again,  and  one  feels  the  presence  of  the  Na- 
poleonic idea,  clad,  as  of  old,  in  the  French 
arms;  for  it  is  from  Napoleon,  that  star  of  en- 
lightenment —  Napoleon  as  he  was  in  his  Egyp- 
tian campaigns  —  that  the  French  empire  in 
Africa  derives;  and  if,  as  the  heir  of  the  Cru- 
sades, France  was  through  centuries  the  pro- 
tector of  Christians  in  the  East,  and  that  role 
is  now  done,  it  is  a  greater  role  that  she  in- 
herits from  Napoleon  as  the  friend  of  Islam, 
with  the  centuries  before  her.  Force,  demon- 
strated in  the  army,  is  the  basis  of  order  in  all 
civilized  lands;  that  is  why  the  presence  of  the 
French  uniform  delights  me;  but  it  is  not  by 
brute  force  that  France  moves  in  the  essential 
conquest,  nor  is  it  military  lust  that  her  empire 
in  Africa  represents  and  embodies.  It  is,  rather, 
a  striking  instance  of  fatality  in  human  events 
that  her  advancing  career  in  North  Africa  pre- 
sents to  the  historical  mind ;  a  slight  incident  — 
a  bey  struck  one  of  her  ambassadors  with  a  fan 
—  forced  on  her  the  occupation  of  Algiers,  and 
in  the  course  of  years  she  found  herself  saddled 
with  a  burden  of  colonial  empire  as  awkwardly 
and  reluctantly  as  was  the  case  with  us  and  the 
Philippines.     There  were  anticolonialists  in  her 


42    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

experiences,  as  there  were  antiimperialists  with 
us;  and  the  arguments  were  about  the  same, 
essentially,  in  both  cases  —  the  rights  of  man, 
a  new  frontier,  an  alien  people,  with  various 
economic  considerations  of  revenue,  tariff,  ex- 
ploitation. That  obscure  element  of  reality, 
however,  which  we  call  fate,  worked  on  con- 
tinuously, linking  situation  with  event,  difficulty 
with  remedy,  what  was  done  with  what  had 
to  be  done,  till  the  occupation  spread  from 
Algiers  into  the  mountains,  along  the  seaboard, 
over  the  Atlas,  into  the  desert,  absorbing  the 
neighboring  land  of  Tunis,  skirting  the  danger- 
ous frontier  of  Morocco  —  and  now  the  vitaliz- 
ing and  beneficent  power  of  French  civilization, 
as  it  might  almost  seem  against  the  will  of  its 
masters,  dominates  a  vast  tract  of  doubtful 
empire  whose  issues  are  among  the  most  inter- 
esting contingencies  of  the  future  of  humanity. 
It  is  a  great  work  that  has  been  accomplished, 
but  is  greater  in  the  tasks  it  opens  than  in  those 
already  achieved. 

The  policy  of  pacification  and  penetration 
is,  indeed,  one  of  the  present  glories  of  France. 
There  has  been  fierce  fighting,  hard  toils  of 
war;  the  land  has  been  the  training-school  of 
French  generals;  and  were  it  known  and  writ- 
ten, the  story  of  French   campaigning   in   the 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  43 

mountains  and  the  desert  would  prove  to  be 
one  of  those  heroic  chapters  of  fine  deeds  ob- 
scurely done,  rich  in  personal  worth,  that  of  all 
military  glory  have  most  moral  greatness.  The 
esyrit  of  the  soldiers  was  like  that  of  devoted 
and  lost  bands  —  they  were  there  to  die.  But 
it  belongs  to  military  force  to  be  initial  and 
preparatory,  occasional,  in  its  active  expres- 
sion; thereafter,  in  its  passivity,  it  is  a  guar- 
antee; it  is  order.  The  great  line  of  French 
administrative  policy,  whether  playing  through 
the  army  or  beyond  it,  was,  nevertheless,  the 
child  and  heir  of  Napoleon's  idea;  amity  with 
Islam.  To  respect  rites,  usages,  prejudices,  to 
make  the  leaders  of  the  people  —  chiefs,  judges, 
religious  heads  —  intermediaries  of  power,  to  find 
with  patience  and  consideration  the  line  of 
least  resistance  for  civilization  by  means  of  the 
social  and  racial  organization  instead  of  in  op- 
position thereto,  and  to  display  therewith  not  a 
spirit  of  cold,  proud,  and  superior  tolerance  but 
a  frank  and  interested  sympathy  —  that,  at 
least,  was  the  ideal  of  the  French  way  of  empire. 
It  had  its  disinterested  elements  —  respect  for 
humanity  was  implicit  in  it.  What  strikes  the 
close  student  of  the  movement  most  is  not  the 
military  advance  but  the  extraordinary  degree 
to  which  the  military  advance  itself  was  im- 


44    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

pregnated  with  intelligence,  scientific  observa- 
tion, scholarly  interest,  economic  suggestion, 
engineering  ambition,  as  if  these  French  oflB- 
cers  were  less  men  of  arms  than  pioneers  of 
knowledge  and  public  works.  The  publications 
through  fifty  years  by  men  in  the  service  on 
every  conceivable  topic  relating  to  the  land  and 
its  people  in  scientific,  economic,  and  historical 
matters  are  innumerable;  they  constitute  a 
thorough  study  of  vast  areas.  Such  a  fact  tells 
its  own  story  —  a  story  of  devotion  in  a  cause 
of  civilization. 

Peaceful  penetration  does  not  mean  merely 
that  the  railroad  has  entered  the  Sahara,  and 
the  wire  gone  far  beyond  into  its  heart,  and  the 
express  messenger  crossed  the  great  waste;  nor 
that  the  school  and,  with  it,  the  language  are 
everywhere,  subduing  and  informing  the  mind; 
nor  that  agricultural  science,  engineering  skill, 
economic  initiative,  and  even  philanthropic 
endeavor,  hospitals,  hygiene,  are  at  work,  or 
beginning,  or  in  contemplation;  but  it  means 
the  restoration  of  a  great  and  almost  forsaken 
tract  of  the  earth  —  from  the  Mediterranean 
and  Lake  Tchad  to  the  Niger  and  the  Atlantic 
—  with  its  populations,  to  the  benefits  of  peace- 
ful culture,  safe  commerce,  humane  conditions, 
and  to  fraternity  with  the  rest  of  mankind.     It 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  45 

is  not  the  brilliant  military  scene  that  holds  my 
eye  in  the  packed  avenue,  with  its  double  rows 
of  trees  shadowy  in  the  air,  lined  with  brilliant 
shops  and  stately  urban  buildings,  opera,  cathe- 
dral, residence  —  the  familiar  modern  metro- 
politan scene  in  the  electric  glare;  but  I  see  the 
work  of  France  all  over  the  darkened  land  from 
the  thousand  miles  of  seacoast,  up  over  the 
impenetrable  Atlas  ranges,  down  endless  desert 
routes  —  carrying  civilizing  power,  like  a  radi- 
ating force,  through  a  new  world. 

IX 

Tunis  is  the  gateway  by  which  I  entered  this 
world  —  the  new  world  of  France,  the  old  world 
of  the  desert.  It  was  almost  an  accident  of 
travel  that  I  had  come  here,  refuging  myself 
from  the  life  I  had  known,  and  seeking  a  place  to 
forget  and  to  repose,  away  from  men.  I  had 
no  thought  of  even  temporary  residence  or  ex- 
ploration; but  each  day  my  interest  deepened, 
my  curiosity  was  enlivened,  my  sympathies 
warmed,  and  slowly  I  was  aware  that  the  land 
held  me  in  its  spell  —  a  land  of  fantastic  scenery, 
of  a  mysterious  people,  of  a  barbaric  history 
and  mise  en  scene,  a  land  of  the  primitive.  I 
coursed  it  from  end  to  end. 


46    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

The  best  description  of  North  Africa  as  a 
visual  fragment  of  the  globe  is  that  which  de- 
lineates it  as  a  vast  triangular  island,  whose 
two  northern  horns  lie,  one  off  Spain  at  Gib- 
raltar, the  other,  with  a  broader  strait,  off 
Sicily  —  with  a  southward  wall  overlooking  the 
ocean-hke  Sahara,  and  running  slantingly  to 
the  Atlantic,  whose  seaboard  makes  the  narrow 
base  of  the  triangle.  This  immense  island  is 
gridironed  through  its  whole  mass  with  moun- 
tains, ranging  southwest  and  northeast,  and 
hence  not  easily  penetrable  except  at  those  re- 
mote ends;  it  is  backed  by  table-lands  of  vary- 
ing breadth  between  the  Northern  and  the  Sa- 
haran  Atlas,  which  form  its  outer  walls,  and  the 
conglomeration  of  successive  ranges  at  varying 
altitudes,  with  their  high  plateaus,  is  cut  with 
deep  gullies,  valleys,  pockets,  fastnesses  of  all 
sorts  —  a  formidable  country  for  defence  and  of 
difficult  communication.  Under  the  southern 
edge  of  the  Saharan  Atlas,  like  a  long  chain  of 
infrequent  islands,  runs  the  line  of  oases  in  the 
near  desert  from  the  northeasterly  tip  of  the 
lowlands  of  the  isle  of  Djerba  southwesterly  the 
whole  distance  to  the  Atlantic,  and  here  and 
there  pressing  deep  into  the  waste  of  sand  and 
rock;  under  the  northern  wall  stretches  the 
arable  lowland  here  and  there  on  the  Mediter- 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  47 

ranean  coast  where  lie  the  mountain-backed 
ports.  At  the  highest  points,  in  Morocco,  Hes 
perpetual  snow,  and  the  land  is  snow-roofed  in 
winter. 

Among  these  wild  mountains  in  antiquity 
lived  an  indigenous  blond  race,  whose  blue-eyed, 
clear-complexioned  descendants  may  still  be  met 
with  there,  and  mixed  with  them  a  darker  popu- 
lation from  the  sunburnt  desert  and  lowlands, 
the  Getulae  and  Numidians  of  history,  of  whom 
Jugurtha  was  a  fine  and  unforgotten  type;  on 
these  original  and  tenacious  races,  whose  blood 
was  inexpugnable,  poured  the  immigrant  human 
floods  through  the  centuries  from  north  and 
south,  west  and  east,  but  the  natives  main- 
tained their  hold  and  the  stock  survived.  The 
Punic  immigration,  with  its  great  capital  of  Car- 
thage, only  touched  the  coast;  the  Romans  es- 
tablished a  great  province  in  Tunisia,  founded 
cities  and  garrisoned  the  country  as  far  as  the 
desert  and  into  the  Riff,  and  made  punitive  ex- 
peditions among  the  nomads  to  the  south;  the 
Visigoths  flocked  from  Spain,  overran  the  whole 
country,  and  passed  away  like  sheets  of  foam; 
the  Byzantines  rebuilt  the  fortresses,  and  their 
hands  fell  away;  the  Arab  hordes  in  successive 
waves  carried  Islam  to  the  western  ocean,  and, 
settling,   Arabized   great   tracts   of  the   Berber 


48    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

blood,  and  made  the  land  Moslem,  but  with  a 
deeper  impregnation  than  when  it  had  been 
Romanized  and  Christianized;  while  through 
all  the  years  of  their  slow  and  imperfect  domi- 
nance new  floods  of  fresh  desert  blood  poured  up 
from  the  Sahara,  much  as  the  barbarians  fell 
from  the  north  upon  Rome.  The  massive  island 
was  thus  always  in  the  contention  of  the  human 
seas,  rising  and  falling;  yet  the  Berber  blood, 
the  Berber  spirit,  continually  recruited  from  the 
Sahara,  seems  never  to  have  really  given  way; 
taking  the  changing  colors  of  its  invaders,  it 
persisted  —  a  rude,  independent,  democratic, 
fierce,  much-enduring,  untamable  race.  It  wears 
its  Islam  in  its  own  fashion.  It  keeps  the  other 
stocks,  that  dwell  in  it,  apart;  the  Jews,  the 
Turks,  Italians,  Maltese,  Spaniards,  are  but 
colonies,  however  long  upon  the  soil,  and  even 
though  in  some  instances  they  adopt  native 
costumes  and  ways.  And  now  it  is  the  turn 
of  France  —  that  is  to  say,  of  dominant  West- 
ern civilization  in  its  most  humane  and  enlight- 
ened form. 

How  many  interests  were  here  combined!  A 
land  of  natural  wildness,  of  romantic  and  solemn 
scenes,  of  splendid  solitudes  and  varying  cli- 
mates; a  past  dipped  in  all  the  colors  of  history; 
a  race  of  physical  competency,  savage  vitality, 


TUNISIAN  DAYS  49 

where  the  primitive  ages  still  stamped  an  image 
of  themselves  in  manners  and  actions  and  as- 
pect; the  fortunes  of  one  of  the  great  present 
causes  of  humanity,  to  be  paralleled  with  Egypt 
and  India,  a  work  of  civilization!  It  could  not 
but  prove  a  fine  adventure.  And  so  I  turned 
nomad,  and  fared  forth.  Bedouin  boys,  rich 
with  my  last  Tunisian  copper,  gave  me  delighted 
good-bys  as  they  ran  after  my  carriage,  scream- 
ing bright-eyed;  and  I  felt  as  if  I  had  already 
friends  in  the  lonely,  silent  land  as  the  long  level 
spans  of  the  high  aqueduct  marched  backward, 
and  the  train  sped  on. 


TLEMCEN 


II 

TLEMCEN 


SNOW  in  April!  I  could  hardly  believe  my 
eyes  as  I  looked  through  the  blurred  panes 
of  the  one  small  window  on  the  large,  moist 
flakes  falling  thickly,  the  trees  green  with  spring- 
time whose  young  foliage  was  burdened  and  slim 
limbs  delicately  heaped  with  snow  an  inch  deep 
in  the  windless  air,  while  the  little  park  was  a 
white  floor  and  the  half -invisible  roofs  a  drifted 
curtain  Hke  a  broken  hillside  —  it  was  so  like 
a  snowy  spring  at  home.  I  was  in  the  unpre- 
tending hotel,  in  an  upper  corner  room,  bare, 
narrow,  but  clean,  which  reminded  me  curiously 
of  such  accommodation  as  one  used  to  find  in 
western  Kansas  towns  thirty  years  ago,  fit  for 
the  seasoned  traveller,  but  without  superfluities, 
—  frontier-like,  a  border  lodging;  and  the  im- 
pression was  deepened  and  vivified  when  I  de- 
scended the  rude  and  confused  stairway  and 
found  the  private-family  dining-room,  with  the 
only  fire  —  olive-knots  burning  reluctantly  on  a 

53 


54    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

small  hearth.  A  French  officer,  hanging  over 
it,  made  room  for  me,  and  in  a  moment  two 
other  officers  appeared,  heavily  clothed  with 
leather  and  capes,  prepared,  as  I  gathered,  for 
a  long  ride  in  the  country.  It  might  have  been 
a  hunting  scene  in  Colorado,  in  the  early  morn- 
ing, except  for  the  military  color,  the  foreign 
physiognomy  and  the  French  coffee  we  were 
drinking;  it  had  the  traits  of  rude  vigor,  hardi- 
hood and  weather  that  belong  to  an  outdoor 
life. 

It  seemed  more  natural  to  go  out  into  the 
snow  than  not,  and  so  I  found  an  Arab  and 
went.  Our  path  led  us  a  short  way  through 
streets  of  Sunday  quiet,  and  soon  broke  by  a 
city  gate  into  irregular  country,  picturesque  from 
the  beginning  with  ruined  masses  of  old  ram- 
parts. The  road  was  bordered  with  trees  and 
hedges,  a  lovely  road  even  in  the  snow,  and  soon 
it  was  apparent  that  we  were  passing  through 
the  midst  of  an  old  and  extensive  cemetery 
with  cypresses,  cactus,  fig-trees,  here  and  there 
an  immense  carob-tree,  and  olives  and  locusts, 
diversifying  the  uneven  lines  of  the  slopes; 
and  everywhere,  as  far  as  one  looked,  neglected 
graves,  shrines  in  ruins,  koubbas  —  small,  square, 
dome-covered  memorials  of  the  saints  —  dilapi- 
dated and  with  broken   arches,  the  debris  of 


TLEMCEN  55 

centuries  of  devotion  and  mortality.  It  was 
quite  in  keeping;  for  I  was  myself  on  pilgrimage, 
where  for  seven  centuries  the  faithful  Moslem 
of  the  land  had  preceded  me,  to  the  holy  tomb 
of  Sidi  bou-Medyen,  the  patron  saint  of  the 
little  city.  As  he  ended  his  earthly  travels  on 
one  of  these  neighboring  slopes  —  and  he  had 
wandered  through  the  Arab  world  —  he  ex- 
claimed: "How  good  it  were  to  sleep  in  this 
blessed  soil  the  eternal  slumber!"  and  so  they 
buried  him  there.  It  was  a  place  of  immemorial 
consecration;  in  early  times  of  the  faith  a  body 
of  pious  Moslems  had  been  cloistered  near  by, 
and  already  in  that  age  in  these  fields  the  "men 
of  God"  had  their  resting-places  about  which 
the  Moslems  liked  to  be  buried,  as  old  Christians 
used  to  wish  to  lie  in  holy  ground  about  the 
church.  It  was  even  then  a  place  of  pilgrimage, 
and  a  village  grew  up  about  it,  and  ruins  of 
minarets  and  mosques  still  lie  there;  and  later, 
about  Sidi  bou-Medyen's  shrine,  another  vil- 
lage was  built  among  the  encumbering  graves, 
for  he  was  a  famous  saint  and  many  pilgrims 
came  there,  and  now  the  inhabitants  say  pleas- 
antly: "We  have  the  dead  in  our  houses."  The 
landscape  is  thus  a  place  of  tombs;  but  it  is  en- 
chanting, and  one  sees  at  a  little  distance  ter- 
raced mountain  edges,  thick  gardens  of  olive, 


56    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

the  pomegranates,  the  ancient  £g-trees,  masses 
of  foliage  and  vines,  abounding  fertiHty  and 
freshness,  green  and  flowering  with  spring;  and 
sown  all  along  the  tree-sheltered  road  the  low 
and  humble  ruins  of  mortality. 

I  entered  the  village  —  the  road  ran  a  mile 
or  more  through  such  a  scene  —  and  climbed 
the  steep  way  to  the  wooden  door  through  which 
one  comes  into  the  precincts  of  the  saint's  tomb 
with  its  attendant  mosque  and  school.  I  did 
not  anticipate  a  mausoleum;  I  was  familiar 
with  such  shrines  and  knew  what  I  should  see; 
but  the  square  koubbas,  with  their  white  domes, 
which  one  sees  everywhere  in  the  fields,  on  the 
hilltops,  all  over  this  lonely  country,  give  a 
grave  and  solemn  accent  to  the  landscape,  and 
I  felt  the  reverence  of  the  place,  remote  and  soli- 
tary, where  so  many  thousand  men  had  warmed 
their  life-worn  hearts  in  the  glow  of  the  faith. 
In  the  antechamber,  adjoining  the  shrine,  Moor- 
ish arches  fell  on  four  small  onyx  columns  of 
beautiful  purity,  resting  on  the  tiled  floor,  and 
just  at  my  feet  was  an  ancient  holy  well  whose 
onyx  edge  was  deeply  cut  by  the  wearing  of  the 
chain  that  had  given  water  to  twenty  genera- 
tions of  those  who  thirsted  for  God.  As  I 
turned,  the  room  of  the  shrine  was  open  before 
me  —  heavy  with  shadows,  almost  dark,  while 


TLEMCEN  57 

the  light  struggled  through  vivid,  dull  spots  of 
colored  glass,  blue,  green,  red,  on  the  obscurity 
where  I  saw  the  raised  coffin,  swathed  with 
silken  stuffs  and  gold-wrought  work  and  thick 
with  hanging  standards;  another  coffin,  with 
the  body  of  the  companion  and  disciple  of  the 
saint,  stood  beside,  more  humbly  covered,  and 
there  were  candles,  chandeliers,  suspended  os- 
trich eggs,  lanterns,  and  banal  European  objects, 
the  common  furnishings  of  shrines.  I  lingered  a 
while  with  the  sombre  and  thoughtful  respect 
natural  before  a  sight  so  very  human,  so  im- 
pregnated with  humanity.  I  noted  the  votive 
offerings  on  the  door,  bits  of  silk  and  tangled 
threads,  which  attested  the  humility  of  the  es- 
tate of  multitudes  of  these  poor  people  —  rem- 
nants of  fetichism;  and  the  strips  of  painted 
wood  upon  the  walls  of  the  antechamber,  with 
ordinary  Mohammedan  designs,  rude  scrawls  of 
art. 

I  issued  into  the  court,  in  the  raw  snowy  air, 
and  crossed  the  narrow  space  to  the  mosque. 
It  was  a  magnificent  portal  that  rose  before  me 
through  the  falling  flakes,  raised  on  its  broad 
steps  as  on  a  base,  and  lifting  the  apex  of  its 
wide  horseshoe  arch  more  than  twenty  feet  in 
air;  a  high  entablature  expanded  above.  The 
whole  surface  of  the  gateway  was  covered  with 


58    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

arabesque  work  in  mosaic  faience  to  the  archi- 
trave, bearing  its  dedicatory  inscription  in  beau- 
tiful architectural  script,  and  with  enamelled 
tiles  above  —  all  in  sober  colors  of  white,  brown, 
yellow,  and  green  —  and  finely  wrought  in 
Moorish  designs;  it  was  a  noble  entrance.  I 
passed  within  its  shadows,  and  found  myself  in 
a  stately  porch,  richly  ornamented,  the  lateral 
walls  overlaid,  from  a  lower  space  left  bare  and 
severe,  by  delicately  arcaded  work  in  stucco  as 
far  as  to  the  springing  of  the  stalactite  ceiling 
of  the  cupola,  whose  central  points  gave  back 
the  reflected  snow-lights  from  below;  massive 
bronze  doors,  sombre,  rich  in  shadowy  tones, 
filled  the  fourth  side  —  their  plates,  riveted  to 
the  wood,  chiselled  and  overspread  with  large, 
many -pointed  stars  engaged  in  an  infinite  lineal 
network  of  that  old  art,  in  whose  subtility  and 
intricacy  and  illusory  freedom  of  control  the 
Moorish  decorative  genius  delighted  to  work. 
The  momentary  sight,  as  my  eyes  rounded  out 
the  full  impression  of  the  porch  I  stood  in,  was, 
as  it  were,  a  seizure;  the  novelty  —  for  I  had 
never  before  seen  this  art  in  its  own  home  — 
the  refinement,  the  harmony  relieved  on  the 
sense  of  mass  and  space,  the  seclusion,  the  winter 
lights  without,  the  cool  and  sombre  peace,  com- 
bined  to  make  a  moment  in   which  memory 


TLEMCEN  59 

concentrates  itself.  It  was  an  Alhambra  cham- 
ber in  which  I  stood;  and  the  iSrst  reaUzing  sight 
of  a  new  art,  hke  that  of  a  new  land,  is  a  vivi- 
fying moment,  full  of  infinite  possibility,  almost 
of  a  new  life  for  the  artistic  instincts.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  moment  nor  the  place  where 
the  spell  of  the  Andalusian  craftsmen  first  thus 
seized  me  in  the  slowly  falling  snow. 

The  way  led  me  on  into  the  arcaded  court, 
and  then  the  hall  of  prayer,  under  the  arches 
of  its  crossing  naves,  to  the  ornamented  recess 
sunk  in  the  further  wall,  the  mihrab,  which  is 
the  Moslem  altar  and  guides  the  hearts  of  the 
people,  as  they  pray,  toward  Mecca.  Its  arch 
rested  on  two  small  onyx  columns,  with  high, 
foliated  capitals,  exquisite  in  their  romantic 
kind;  and  above  and  about  ran  the  arabesque 
decoration  in  plaster  and  all  over  the  walls  of 
the  mosque  and  the  surface  of  the  Moorish 
arches,  whose  intervening  roofs  were  ceiled  with 
sunken  panels  of  cognate  but  diverse  design  — 
a  beautiful  garniture  of  w^andering  lineal  relief, 
like  the  veining  of  a  leaf,  netted  in  geometrical 
forms,  emboldened  with  lines  of  cursive  script, 
flowing  with  conventionalized  floral  branch  and 
palms,  varied,  repeated,  interlaced.  The  archi- 
tectural masses  and  spaces  defined  themselves 
with  firmness  and  breadth  in  contrast  with  this 


60    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

richly  elaborated  surface;  there  seemed  a  natu- 
ral unity  between  the  design  and  the  decora- 
tion, as  of  the  forest  with  its  foliage;  through 
all  one  felt  the  ejffect  that  belongs  unfailingly  to 
the  mosque  —  a  grand  simplicity.  I  wandered 
about,  for  a  mosque  charms  me  more  than  a 
church;  and  then  I  turned  to  the  medersah,  or 
college,  adjoining  its  precinct,  with  its  central 
court  lined  with  scholars'  cells  and  its  hall  for 
lectures  and  prayer  beyond.  It  was  pleasing 
to  find  a  college  under  the  protection  of  the 
saint.  Sidi  bou-Medyen  was  himself  a  scholar, 
bred  at  the  schools  of  Seville  and  Fez;  he  re- 
tired to  the  anchorite's  life  on  these  hills  while 
yet  a  youth,  and  being  perfected  in  the  friend- 
ship of  God,  admitted  to  ecstasy  and  invested 
with  the  power  of  miracle,  preached  at  Baghdat, 
professed  theology,  rhetoric,  and  law  at  Seville 
and  Cordova,  and  opened  a  college  of  his  own 
on  the  African  shore  at  Bougie,  then  a  hearth 
of  liberal  studies,  where  his  tall  figure,  his  res- 
onant, melodious  voice  and  flowery  and  fiery 
eloquence  gained  him  a  great  name;  it  was 
thence  he  was  summoned  by  the  reigning  prince 
of  Tlemcen  on  that  last  journey  on  which,  near- 
ing  the  city's  "blessed  soil,"  where  his  divine 
youth  was  passed,  he  died.  It  was  quite  fit 
that  a  college,  as  well  as  a  mosque,  should  be 


TLEMCEN  61 

raised  and  perpetuate  his  name  near  his  tomb. 
I  left  its  portal  and  passed  down  by  the  stair- 
way to  the  court,  and  gazed  up  at  the  minaret, 
decorated  above  and  wreathed  with  a  frieze  of 
mosaic  faience,  that  lifted  its  three  copper  balls 
at  its  culmination,  dominating  the  little  group 
of  sacred  buildings  on  this  hill,  so  characteristic 
of  the  Moslem  faith  and  past;  and  its  slender 
and  guarding  beauty  was  the  last  sight  I  saw 
as  I  went  down  through  the  narrow  way  and 
issued  into  the  village  road.  A  tall,  grave  Arab 
youth,  standing  in  the  snow,  offered  me  a  great 
bunch  of  violets,  which  I  took;  and  in  the  clear- 
ing weather  I  began  my  walk  back  through  that 
broad  orchard  cemetery,  with  its  endless  human 
debris  under  the  light  fall  of  snow  —  arch  and 
mound  and  wall  among  the  trees,  while  brief 
glints  of  sunshine  lightened  over  it.  Cemeteries 
are  usually  ugly;  but  this  is  one  of  the  very  few 
that  I  remember  with  fondness,  perhaps  because 
here  there  was  no  effort  to  delay  the  natural 
decay  of  human  memory.  Death  is  as  natural 
as  life,  and  here  it  seemed  so;  there  was  no 
antithesis  of  the  fallen  ruin  and  the  blossom 
springing  in  the  snow,  but  a  tranquil  harmony. 
It  is  so  that  I  remember  it. 


62    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


II 


Later  in  the  afternoon,  the  weather  continu- 
ing to  clear,  I  drove  with  a  French  gentleman  — 
we  were  mutually  unknown  —  to  the  cascades 
lying  not  far  to  the  southeast.  Tlemcen  is 
posed  at  a  somewhat  high  elevation  on  the  last 
spurs  of  the  ranges  that  encircle  and  dominate 
it  from  behind,  and  faces  a  great  plain,  bounded 
with  distant  blue  mountains  on  the  sides,  and 
having  the  Mediterranean  at  its  far  limit,  whose 
gleam  can  be  seen  only  on  fair,  clear  days.  It  is 
a  spacious  prospect;  and  the  near  view  in  which 
we  drove  by  a  rising  serpentine  road  was  finely 
mountainous  —  dolomitic  crags  on  the  right,  and 
on  the  left  a  deep  ravine  denting  the  plain 
whose  gently  sloping  plateau  had-  many  a  time 
been  a  chosen  battle-ground.  Birds  flew  about 
the  heights  and  verdure  clothed  the  scene. 
The  geological  formation  lends  itself  to  numer- 
ous living  springs;  the  upper  limestone  rests  on 
sandstone,  which  in  turn  lies  on  marl  and  clay, 
and  the  mountain  rainfall  is  thus  caught  in 
natural  reservoirs,  which  issue  in  innumerable 
outlets  in  the  porous  surface.  These  successive 
ranges  of  the  extreme  North  African  shore  are, 
in  fact,  a  continuation  of  the  hills  of  Grenada, 


TLEMCEN  63 

with  which  they  form  a  great  half  circle,  centred 
at  Gibraltar,  and  with  its  hollow  turned  toward 
the  Mediterranean;  it  is  the  country  of  the 
Moroccan  Riff,  and  the  character  of  the  land- 
scape on  the  African  side  is  precisely  the  same 
as  in  Spain  —  it  is  Andalusian  scenery.  As  we 
drew  near  our  goal,  the  rocks  took  on  more  dis- 
tinctly the  picturesqueness  of  outline,  due  to 
long  erosion;  they  had  a  look  like  natural  ruins 
high  in  air,  and  opposite,  just  beyond  the  cas- 
cades, a  superb  cliff  mountain  filled  the  lower 
sky. 

We  passed  through  a  little  garden  to  the  foot 
of  the  fall.  It  was  a  grotto  scene.  The  water 
issued  in  masses  from  low  cavernous  walls  and 
recesses  over  whose  broken  floors  and  spurs  it 
poured.  It  was  not  a  simple  waterfall,  however, 
that  we  had  come  to  see,  but  a  succession  of 
cascades  that  fell  from  shelf  to  sheff  far  up  the 
precipice.  The  whole  scene  was  robed  in  new- 
fallen  snow,  and  the  way  wet  and  slippery;  but 
the  ascent  was  easily  practicable  by  a  path  that 
led  up  the  incline,  with  many  a  gyration,  often 
dipping  into  the  bed  of  a  flowing  stream  and 
mounting  by  the  rocks  in  the  midst,  often  too 
steep  and  slippery  to  climb  without  the  friendly 
aid  of  bushes,  grasping  hands  and  canes.  But 
one  scrambled  up,  and  the  running  water  under- 


64    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

foot,  snow  and  icy  slides,  only  gave  a  wild  tang 
and  gentle  touch  of  adventure  to  the  rather 
breathless  labor;  and  every  little  while  one 
stopped  and  looked  below  into  the  deepening 
ravine,  or  approached  the  falling  waters  in  some 
new  aspect,  till  we  came  out  at  the  summit  of 
the  upper  cascade,  where  it  poured  beautifully 
down  in  the  midst  of  a  cirque  of  pointed  rocks 
that  rose  from  an  indescribably  fantastic  mass 
of  juts  and  hanging  eyries,  as  it  were,  all  clothed 
and  thick  with  vegetation,  vivid  and  bathed,  in- 
expressibly fresh,  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers 
and  vines,  an  exuberance  of  plant  life;  and  the 
glittering  cascade  fell  spraying  far  into  its  rocky 
heart  and  sent  back  mellow  music  from  the 
depth.  "It  is  a  landscape  of  Edgar  Poe,"  said 
my  companion.  I  was  startled  for  a  moment, 
but  a  glance  assured  me  that  the  aptitude  of  his 
remark  was  unknown  to  the  speaker  —  it  was 
only  a  spontaneous  tribute  to  genius,  which  per- 
haps the  casual  presence  of  an  American  had 
helped  to  germinate.  But,  indeed,  the  impres- 
sion of  the  scene  could  hardly  have  been  better 
given  than  in  those  words.  It  was  "a  landscape 
of  Edgar  Poe"  —  just  such  a  one  as  he  would 
have  chosen  as  the  scene  of  one  of  his  romances, 
as  my  companion  went  on  to  say;  it  was  sui 
generis,  fantastic,  a  marriage  of  the  garden  and 


TLEMCEN  65 

the  wilderness,  not  without  a  touch  of  diablerie, 
the  suggestion  that  would  make  of  such  a  re- 
treat the  haunt  of  Arabian  fancy,  primitive 
tragedy,  and  enchanted  legend.  It  had  the 
formal  character  of  romance  and  the  atmosphere 
of  natural  magic;  a  place  where  unearthliness 
might  find  its  home.  That  was  the  Poesque 
trait  that  the  random  suggestion,  perhaps,  over- 
defined.  This  scene,  however,  was  not  all,  as, 
indeed,  our  ears  warned  us;  and  crossing  a 
narrow  crown  of  land  toward  the  muffled  roar, 
we  saw  another  falling  river;  the  slender  column 
of  wavering  waters  came  from  a  great  height, 
sprayed  and  united,  and  rushed  with  a  flood  of 
force  and  speed  to  join  the  waterfall  below;  it 
had  the  beauty  of  something  seen  against  the 
sky,  in  contrast  with  what  was  seen  below 
against  the  earth;  it  was  a  unique  combination, 
and  the  only  time  I  have  ever  seen  the  junction 
of  two  rivers  by  the  waterfall  of  one  flowing  into 
the  waterfall  of  the  other. 

We  went  by  an  upper  path  to  the  high  via- 
duct of  a  railroad  that  crosses  the  deep  glen  at 
that  point,  and  thence  commanded  the  broad  ex- 
panse of  the  seaward  plain  with  its  near  amphi- 
theatre of  mountain  ranges,  and  Tlemcen  lying 
below  on  its  headland  among  its  orchards.  The 
reason  why  it  grew  up,  and  stood  for  centu- 


66    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ries,  was  plain;  it  is  the  key  of  the  country. 
It  seemed,  and  is,  a  garden  city;  and  as  we 
walked  or  scrambled  down  the  looped  pathway 
over  the  terraced  face  of  the  hill  on  that  side, 
and  drove  on  round  the  circuitous  road  and 
back  on  our  track  to  the  city,  I  was  most  struck 
by  the  endless  orchards  lying  beneath  us  on  the 
bottom-lands  at  the  foot  of  the  ravine,  and 
others  through  which  we  passed;  and  during  all 
my  stay  I  saw  them  —  orchards  of  orange,  lemon, 
almond,  peach,  and  pear,  and  apple  trees,  and 
olives,  and  especially  cherries,  in  profusion  ev- 
erywhere, and  among  them  the  constant  sound 
of  running  waters  from  the  springs. 

Ill 

The  fruit-bearing  feature  of  the  country  must 
have  been  an  original  trait.  Pomaria,  or  as  one 
might  say  in  our  own  phrase,  Orchard-town,  was 
the  name  of  the  first  settlement  in  the  coloniz- 
ing days  of  Rome.  I  walked  to  the  place,  just 
under  the  northern  wall  of  the  city,  one  morn- 
ing for  a  stroll.  I  was  soon  at  the  foot  of  the 
tall  minaret  of  the  ruined  mosque  of  Sidi  Lahsen 
that  rises  on  the  site  of  old  Agadir,  which  was 
the  Berber  name  that  next  absorbed  the  Ro- 
man Pomaria;    and  I  saw  the  Latin-inscribed 


TLEMCEN  67 

stones  built  into  the  foundation,  ruin  under 
ruin,  as  it  were;  for  the  walls  of  the  minaret, 
which  towered  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet,  were 
dilapidated,  their  enamel  weather-worn,  show- 
ing faded  green  and  yellow  tones  in  the  rectan- 
gular spaces  on  the  sides  and  the  bordering 
band  at  the  top,  which  bore  the  ceramic  decora- 
tion; the  campanile  above,  tipped  with  a  stork's 
nest  and  a  stork,  added  a  touch  of  lonely  deser- 
tion, and  grass  and  flowers  were  growing  be- 
tween the  stones  of  the  adjacent  roofless  floor. 
Ruined  mosques  are  often  as  beautiful  as  En- 
glish abbeys. 

I  wandered  on  through  a  country  district 
over  which  was  scattered  a  native  village,  but 
in  the  main  an  open  region.  It  was  remark- 
able for  the  number  of  old  trees  it  contained; 
and,  indeed,  hardly  less  striking  a  feature  of  the 
landscape  of  Tlemcen,  in  general,  than  its  gar- 
landing orchards  is  this  grouping  of  old  trees, 
though  it  is  rarer.  The  whole  African  coast 
affords  specimens  of  trees  of  great  mass  and 
age.  I  remember  one  such  on  the  eastern  bor- 
ders of  Algeria  that  I  found  among  the  fields, 
deep  in  the  country;  or  rather  I  was  guided 
to  it  by  the  Arab  children  I  had  gathered  in 
my  train,  and  especially  by  one  Bedouin  shep- 
herd lad  who  had  left  his  wandering  herd  to  fol- 


68    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

low  me,  and  they  insisted  that  I  should  see  the 
sacred  tree.  It  was  a  monarch  of  the  vale  — 
one  of  a  group  of  three;  massive  in  foliage,  long 
of  Hmb,  great  of  girth,  horizontal  in  aspect,  a 
leaning,  almost  fallen,  tower  of  the  forest.  It 
looked  as  if  centuries  were  indifferent  to  it  — 
it  was  so  old.  It  was  a  holy  tree,  a  marabout^ 
as  they  called  it;  and  bits  of  cloth,  strips  of 
rags,  fluttered  from  its  boughs,  where  they  had 
been  placed  as  votive  offerings  by  the  poor 
people  of  the  district.  I  was  told  that  I  should 
put  some  copper  coins  on  the  bough  or  in  the 
hollow,  for  an  offering  and  to  have  good  for- 
tune, for  no  one  would  take  them,  and  I  did 
so,  glad  to  pay  my  devoirs  and  wondering  in- 
wardly how  long  it  was  since  my  own  far  an- 
cestors had  joined  in  tree-worship.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  ever  seen  a  sacred  tree,  one 
actually  worshipped,  and  it  touched  my  imag- 
ination. At  Tlemcen  I  saw  no  tree  so  fine  as 
that;  but  there  were  several  that  bore  a  patri- 
archal resemblance;  and  in  the  morning  stroll 
I  speak  of  I  found  a  grove  of  them,  not  close 
together,  but  spread  out  over  the  open  land- 
scape and  nigh  enough  for  neighborhood.  They 
were  terebinths,  old  ruins  of  the  vegetable  world, 
with  that  same  horizontal  reach  and  earth- 
bowed  air  —  they  might  almost  seem  on  their 


TLEMCEN  69 

knees  in  some  elemental  adoration;  age  filled 
them;  in  that  cemetery  —  for  it  was  a  cemetery 
—  they  were  monumental.  It  was  a  quiet  land- 
scape; cattle  were  grazing  here  and  there;  three 
or  four  ruined  koubbas  with  broken  arches  and 
fallen  walls  rose  at  intervals,  once  stately  monu- 
ments, for  this  was  the  burial-place  of  the  roy- 
alty of  Tlemcen  in  their  empire  years.  Not  far 
away,  on  a  knoll,  in  a  place  apart,  was  the  shrine 
of  the  first  patron  saint  of  the  city,  then  Aga- 
dir  —  for  Sidi  bou-Medyen  was  a  later  comer, 
and  saints,  like  dynasties,  have  their  times  and 
seasons,  and  this  cemetery  of  the  City-Gate  was 
old  before  his  hillside  began  to  know  the  fur- 
row of  death.  The  first  patron,  Sidi  Wahhab,  a 
companion  of  the  Prophet  and  a  comrade  of  the 
conqueror,  lies  under  the  terebinths.  Pointed 
by  a  magnificent  tree,  I  passed  along  its  shadow 
down  a  shelving,  stony  way  to  a  little  garden 
of  roses;  there,  in  the  hollow,  sunken  in  the 
surrounding  soil  by  its  antiquity,  I  found  the 
grave  of  Sidi  Yaqoub,  walled,  but  open  to  the 
sky  —  a  lovely  place,  with  the  rose  and  the  tere- 
binth and  the  sky.  This  cemetery  of  the  City- 
Gate  was  a  kind  of  spiritual  outpost  for  pro- 
tection; the  saints,  indeed,  camped  about  all 
the  gates  to  guard  the  city  in  their  death;  nor 
was  it  altogether  in  vain;    it  is  related  of  at 


70    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

least  one  prudent  conqueror  that  he  carefully 
inquired  as  to  number  and  virtue  of  the  saints 
who  lay  at  the  various  gates,  as  if  they  had 
been  modern  batteries,  and  selected  for  attack 
that  postern  where  least  was  to  be  feared  from 
the  ghostly  artillery.  The  position  at  the  spot  I 
have  described  was  uncommonly  strong. 

I  followed  on  my  return  the  broken  line  of 
the  old  ramparts  of  Agadir,  a  knife-edge  path, 
or  divide,  as  it  were,  a  climbing,  tortuous,  rough 
way,  great  masses  of  red  soil  heavily  overgrown 
with  vivid  vegetation,  trees,  bushes,  vines, 
emerging  on  a  bewildering  combination  of  gar- 
dens and  tanneries  —  a  dilapidated,  ruinous  way 
it  was  altogether.  I  remember  a  Tower  of  the 
Winds  that  might  have  been  on  the  Roman 
campagna;  and  to  the  north  there  was  always 
the  broad  prospect  of  the  great  plain.  It  was 
but  a  short  walk  from  here  to  one  of  the  mod- 
ern gates  of  Tlemcen,  that  stands  on  a  higher 
level  than  Agadir;  and  just  under  it  I  came 
on  the  mosque  of  Sidi'l-Halwi,  or,  as  one  would 
say,  Englishing  his  name.  Saint  Bonbon.  In  his 
mortal  days  he  made  sweetmeats  for  the  children, 
and  the  touch  of  a  child's  story  hangs  about  his 
legend.  When  the  wicked  vizier  beheaded  him 
and  his  body  was  cast  outside  the  gate,  it  was 
said  that  in  answer  to  the  guardian's  nightly 


TLEMCEN  71 

call  for  all  belated  travellers  to  enter,  the  poor 
ghost  would  cry  froni  the  outer  darkness:  *'Go 
to  sleep,  guardian;  there  is  none  without  ex- 
cept the  wretched  Saint  Bonbon."  The  re- 
peated miracle  found  the  ears  of  the  Sultan 
and  was  verified  by  himself  in  person,  and  the 
wicked  vizier  was  at  once  sealed  up  alive  in 
the  neighboring  wall,  which  was  conveniently 
being  repaired  at  the  time,  and  the  body  of  the 
saint  was  honorably  laid  in  the  shrine  where  it 
still  reposes  in  the  shelter  of  another  of  those 
secular  trees  —  a  carob,  this  time;  and  duly  the 
mosque  rose  hard  by  with  its  fair  minaret,  on 
whose  faces  still  the  brown  and  yellow  tones  of 
the  half-obliterated  faience  duskily  shine  in 
the  sun.  I  entered  under  the  portal,  partly 
sheathed  in  the  same  weather-battered  colors, 
with  touches  of  blue  and  green,  relics  of  an  older 
beauty,  and  I  rested  there  an  hour  about,  under 
the  fretted  wooden  ceilings,  untwining  the  sinu- 
ous arabesque  patterns  of  the  arcaded  walls, 
cooling  my  eyes  with  the  translucent  onyx  col- 
umns of  the  nave  —  low  columns  with  Moorish 
capitals,  whose  gentle  forms  attested  the  burn- 
ing here  ages  ago  of  the  lamp  of  art. 


72    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


IV 


A  LITTLE  to  the  west  of  Tlemcen,  and  almost 
adjoining  it,  stands  another  ruined  city,  Man- 
sourah.  I  rambled  out  toward  it  on  a  road  alive 
with  market-day  bustle  and  travel,  where  the 
country  people  were  arriving  in  groups  with 
produce  and  beasts  of  burden,  and  the  interest 
of  the  weekly  holiday  in  town  —  a  rough,  hard 
people,  not  at  all  like  the  Tunisians,  but  doubt- 
less of  a  more  vital  stock.  The  French  cavalry 
were  exercising  in  the  Great  Basin  that  had 
once  been  like  a  lake  in  that  quarter  of  the  city, 
a  part  of  the  water-works  of  the  old  days. 
Almost  as  soon  as  I  was  beyond  the  gate  I  saw 
Mansourah  lying  on  the  slope  near  by,  well 
marked  by  its  great  ramparts,  with  towers.  It 
was  the  site  of  an  immense  fortified  camp,  where 
once  a  Moroccan  army  had  sat  down  to  besiege 
Tlemcen,  and  had  abode  many  years  in  that  great 
siege,  and  had  built  a  city  to  house  itself.  At 
one  point  began  a  paved  road,  and  I  passed  down 
its  well-worn,  smooth  flags  into  the  enclosure, 
which  was  wooded  with  olives,  and  looked  like 
a  large  orchard,  showing  spaces  of  strewn  stone, 
some  rough,  ruined  masses,  and  on  the  far 
side  a  lofty  single  tower.     The  fallen  stones  in- 


TLEMCEN  73 

dicated  the  place  of  the  palace,  and  the  tower 
was  the  minaret  of  the  destroyed  mosque.  In 
those  fighting  days  a  siege  might  consume  a 
reign,  and  an  army  was  a  population;  the  march 
might  seem  a  migration;  the  army  brought  its 
women  and  children  along  with  it  and  the  peo- 
ple who  were  necessary  to  its  subsistence,  traders 
and  the  like,  and  established  ordinary  life  on 
the  spot;  a  city  grew  up,  and  in  this  case,  per- 
haps, throve  especially  on  the  intercepted  cara- 
van trade  that  could  no  longer  find  its  natural 
and  customary  outlet  through  the  besieged  town; 
and  if  the  war  were  waged  successfully  the  new 
city  would  swallow  up  the  old  one  that  would 
fall  to  decay.  So  Tagrart,  long  before  Tlemcen, 
had  been  the  camp  over  against  Agadir,  and, 
conquering,  had  become  the  new  seat  of  the  city. 
The  lot  of  Mansourah,  however,  was  different; 
it  did  not  finally  succeed,  but  Tlemcen  in  the  end 
drove  the  plough  over  the  new  city,  extermi- 
nating it,  and  leaving  only  these  ruins  to  be  the 
memorial  of  the  event. 

I  found  little  of  interest  in  the  detail  except 
that  splendid  tower,  which  was  a  spectacle  of 
ruin;  it  commanded  the  scene  by  its  single  and 
solitary  figure,  and  was  imposing  to  the  eye  and 
to  the  mind.  It  was  a  minaret,  but  of  a  different 
order  from  any  I  ever  saw.     It  stood  in  the 


74    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

middle  of  the  fagade  of  the  mosque,  which  was 
entered  by  the  central  door  of  the  minaret, 
massively  crowned  by  concentric  arches  over  the 
portal;  and  this  base  was  continued  above,  in 
the  upper  stories,  by  a  bolder  and  more  solid 
construction  than  usual,  with  ornamental  de- 
tails fitted  to  its  severe  lines,  with  a  balcony  half- 
way up,  and  at  the  top  a  group  of  small  Gothic 
arches.  It  was  thus  more  like  a  cathedral  tower 
in  aspect,  position,  and  use;  and  in  its  majestic 
ruin  it  seemed  such.  The  treatment  of  the  sur- 
face, however,  was  altogether  Moorish.  The 
material  was  a  beautiful  rosy  stone;  and,  over- 
laid on  this,  one  still  saw  the  half-obliterated 
green  and  blue  lights  of  the  incrusted  work  like 
a  dull  peacock  lining.  The  discreet  relief  of  this 
ceramic  ornament  on  the  rose  stone,  used  as  a 
ground  and  having  its  own  warm  and  massive 
effect  in  the  harmony  of  tints,  must  have  made 
a  superb  example  of  that  mosaic  art  of  color 
which  treated  great  surfaces  like  a  jewel  box. 
But  what  a  marvel  it  is  to  find  the  camp  of  a 
horde  of  Berber  tribes,  in  the  confusion  of  a  fierce 
and  bloody  siege,  a  foyer  of  the  great  arts  —  of 
architecture,  delicate  sculpture,  and  mosaic  color ! 
All  those  onyx  columns  that  have  so  delighted 
me  were  brought  from  these  ruins  and  reset  in 
their  new  places  in  Tlemcen.    What  an  interest- 


TLEMCEN  75 

ing  group  of  impressions  a  few  days  had  brought 
me,  here !  not  one  city,  but  a  nest  of  cities,  hke 
a  nest  of  boxes  —  or  Hke  Troy,  superposed  one 
on  another:  Pomaria,  Agadir,  Tagrart,  Mansou- 
rah,  Tlemcen.  A  necropolis  of  saints;  a  moun- 
tain-pleasance  of  fountains,  orchards,  grottos, 
the  haunt  of  pigeons  and  fruits,  rich  in  the 
privacy  and  dehghts  of  country  hfe;  a  land  of 
campaigns,  and  Berber  dynasties,  and  sieges! 
I  began  to  feel  the  inadequacies  of  my  school- 
boy geography  and  college  histories,  the  need  of 
a  new  orientation  of  my  ideas  to  serve  as  a 
ground-plan  for  my  knowledge  of  the  people  and 
its  past,  the  race-character;  and,  on  my  return, 
I  sought  out  the  book-shop  —  an  excellent  one 
—  and  purchased  all  the  little  city  could  tell 
me  about  itself. 


The  conversion  of  a  people  to  a  new  religion, 
notwithstanding  the  glory  of  apostolic  legends, 
must  have  always  been  largely  a  nominal  change. 
The  victorious  faith  takes  up  into  itself  the 
customs  and  cardinal  ideas,  the  habits  of  feel- 
ing and  doing,  the  mental  and  moral  leaf-mould, 
as  it  were,  of  the  old,  and  it  is  often  the  old  that 
survives  in  the  growth  under  a  new  name  and 


76    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

in  a  new  social  organization.  It  was  thus 
that  CathoHcism  re-embodied  paganism,  whether 
classical  or  heathen,  without  a  violent  distur- 
bance of  the  primeval  roots  of  old  religion  with 
its  annual  flowering  of  fetes,  its  local  worships, 
its  sheltering  thoughts  of  protection  in  the  hu- 
man task-work,  its  adumbrations  of  the  world  of 
spirits,  its  ritual  toward  the  good  and  evil  powers; 
and  the  religion  of  Mohammed,  sweeping  over 
Africa  on  the  swords  of  Arab  raiders  and  hordes, 
subdued  the  country  to  the  only  God,  but  the 
Berber  soul  remained  much  as  it  had  been,  a 
barbarian  soul,  still  deeply  engaged  in  fetich- 
ism,  magic,  diabolism,  primitive  emotions,  and 
ancestral  tribal  practices  —  superstition;  nor 
w^as  this  the  first  time  that  the  Berber  soul 
had  encountered  the  religion  of  the  foreigner, 
for  pagan  temples  and  Christian  churches  already 
stood  upon  the  soil.  The  faith  of  Mohammed 
was  more  fiercely  proselytizing;  it  was,  more- 
over, of  desert  and  tribal  kin;  and  it  imposed 
its  formulas  and  exterior  observance  more  widely 
and  thoroughly  than  its  predecessors. 

The  Berber  race,  nevertheless,  was  hard-bitted, 
obstinate,  independent;  it  was  scattered  over 
deserts  and  in  mountain  fastnesses;  its  con- 
version was  slow  and  remained  imperfect  in 
spite  of  much  missionary  work  on  the  part  of 


TLEMCEN  77 

the  pious  proselytizers  from  the  schools  of 
Seville  and  Fez,  who  in  later  generations  fol- 
lowed the  fiery  conquerors  to  "Koranize"  the 
rude  mountaineers,  such  as  those  of  Kabylie, 
and  settled  beside  them  as  daily  guides  and 
teachers.  Long  after  the  first  conquest  Chris- 
tianized Berbers  and  other  dissident  groups 
were  to  be  found  here  and  there,  and  were  tol- 
erated. The  elements  of  primitive  savagery 
held  their  own  in  the  life  of  the  people  at  large, 
just  as  pagan  practice  and  thought  survived  in 
southern  Italy,  and  in  the  last  century  were 
easily  to  be  observed  there;  the  Riff,  in  par- 
ticular, was  a  stronghold  of  magic;  and  every- 
where beneath  the  thin  Moslem  veneer  was 
the  old  substratum  of  superstition  embedded  in 
an  unchanging  savage  heredity  of  mood,  belief, 
and  social  custom.  Fetichism  persisted  in  the 
mental  habit  of  the  people,  and  still  shows  in 
their  addiction  to  holy  places,  magical  rites  and 
modes  of  healing,  charms  and  amulets,  and  the 
whole  rosary  of  primitive  superstition. 

The  Berbers  were  also  by  nature  a  Protestant 
race;  their  independent  spirit  quickly  availed 
itself  of  every  sectarian  difference,  reform  or 
pretension,  to  make  a  core  of  revolt,  inside  the 
pale  of  the  religion,  against  their  foreign  orthodox 
masters.     It  was  their  way  of  asserting  their  na- 


78    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

tionalism  against  the  Arab  domination;  it  was,  es- 
sentially, a  political  manoeuvre.  The  first  great 
Moslem  heresy,  Kharedjism,  instituted  by  the 
followers  of  Ali,  the  son-in-law  of  Mohammed, 
found  the  Berber  tribes  an  army  flocking  to  its 
banners;  and,  afterward,  wherever  schism  broke 
out  or  a  pretender  arose,  there  were  the  Berbers 
gathered  together.  In  that  world  they  were  the 
opposition.  Islam  itself,  by  the  example  of  Mo- 
hammed, had  shown  the  way;  every  tribe  had 
its  inspired  prophet,  sooner  or  later;  and  one,  at" 
least,  among  them,  the  Berghouaia,  once  most 
powerful  in  this  region,  had  its  own  Koran, 
specially  received  in  the  Berber  tongue  from 
the  only  God,  whose  prophet  in  this  instance  was 
Saleh.  The  expectation  of  the  Mahdi,  too  — 
the  last  imam,  who,  having  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared, shall  come  again  to  bring  justice  on  the 
earth — a  tradition  that  mounted  to  Mohammed 
himself,  was  an  incentive  to  his  appearance; 
and  inasmuch  as  the  prediction  circulated  un- 
der the  popular  form  —  "the  sun  shall  arise  in 
the  west"  —  the  Berbers  regarded  themselves 
as  the  chosen  people  among  whom  the  Mahdi 
should  arise.  Under  these  conditions  there  was 
no  lack  of  Mahdis.  One  of  them,  the  greatest, 
Obei'd  Allah,  the  Fatemide,  built  that  lonely  sea- 
port of  Mahdia  on  the  Tunisian  coast,  whence 


TLEMCEN  79 

he  extended  his  sovereignty  over  the  Moslem 
dominions  from  the  Egyptian  border  to  the 
Atlantic,  including  Sicily,  and  warred  on  Genoa, 
Corsica,  and  Sardinia;  but  his  son  had  to  con- 
tend with  a  prophet  pretender,  "the  man  with 
the  ass,"  who  with  a  great  following  from  the 
tribes  maintained  himself  for  a  while,  until  be- 
tween his  own  new-found  taste  for  fine  horses 
and  the  desire  of  the  tribesmen  to  return  to  their 
own  country,  his  authority  and  the  army  melted 
away  together,  like  snow  in  the  desert.  It  was 
a  characteristic  incident  in  Berber  history. 

The  natural  and  various  course  of  such  events 
had  ample  illustration  in  the  Morocco  country 
about  Tlemcen.  Edris,  the  last  alleged  descen- 
dant of  Ali,  found  refuge  in  this  quarter  on  the 
Atlantic  edge  of  the  Mohammedan  world;  the 
Berbers,  after  their  custom  of  rallying  about 
a  promising  dissenter,  soon  had  him  at  their 
head;  his  son  founded  Fez,  and  the  dynasty 
was  prosperous  and  glorious.  Then  a  cloud  ap- 
peared in  the  far  south,  a  cloud  of  horsemen  with 
the  veil  —  I  suppose  the  blue  veil  that  I  asso- 
ciate with  the  Touaregs,  themselves  doubtless 
the  best  living  type  of  that  old  horde  of  des- 
ert raiders.  They  mounted  up  from  the  borders 
of  Senegal,  gathering  masses  of  foot-followers 
as  they  went,  preaching  a  reform  of  faith  and 


80    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

manners,  breaking  all  musical  instruments,  and 
cleansing  the  land;  they  were  fighting  Puritans 
of  their  age  and  religion,  establishing  an  austere 
life  and  a  pure  form  of  the  faith.  So  the  princely 
Edrisides  gave  place  to  the  princely  Almora- 
vides,  and  their  dynasty,  too,  was  prosperous 
and  glorious,  and  extended  its  realm  into  Spain. 
Then  rose  the  Mahdi.  In  this  instance  he  was 
Ibn  Toumert,  a  Berber,  lame  and  ugly,  small, 
copper-colored,  sunken-eyed,  who  had  schooled 
himself  at  Cordova,  and  then,  like  Sidi  bou- 
Medyen,  warmed  his  enthusiastic  and  mystic 
temperament  in  the  oriental  fires  of  Baghdat 
and  Mecca,  and  had  returned  along  the  cities  of 
the  African  seaboard  a  reformer,  breaking  wine- 
casks  and  violins,  and  publicly  reproaching  de- 
vout dignitaries  for  corruption  of  manners,  even 
the  reigning  prince  of  the  Almoravides.  He 
was  soon  the  Mahdi,  with  a  new  Koran,  insti- 
tutor  of  the  sect  of  the  Unity  of  God,  which 
after  his  death  came  to  the  throne  of  the  coun- 
try in  the  dynasty  of  the  princely  Almohades. 
The  students  of  Tlemcen  had  once  sent  one  of 
their  number  to  the  prophet  with  an  invitation 
to  come  and  teach  them;  he,  however,  found 
himself  ill  at  ease  in  the  college,  and  soon  went 
away  into  hermitage  among  the  mountains; 
but  the  youth  remained  with  him  as  his  disciple 


TLEMCEN  81 

and  companion,  and  it  was  this  youth,  Abd 
el-Moumin,  who  founded  the  new  dynasty,  Hke 
its  predecessors  prosperous  and  glorious;  and  it 
was  he  who  drove  the  Normans  out  of  their 
last  stronghold  at  Mahdia,  having  extended  his 
power  so  far,  and  with  his  conquering  arms 
brought  the  Andalusian  arts  to  Tunis.  In  the 
four  centuries  of  this  brief  historic  survey  — 
from  the  eighth  to  the  twelfth  —  a  sectary,  a 
reformation,  and  a  Mahdi  were  the  initial  points 
on  which  the  great  changes  of  the  government  of 
the  country  turned. 

It  might  seem  that  in  this  civilization  politics 
was  only  another  form  of  religion;  but,  deeply 
engaged  as  political  changes  were  in  religious 
phenomena,  this  is  perhaps  a  superficial  view. 
It  may  also  be  maintained  that  the  Berbers  took 
no  metaphysical  interest  in  dogma,  and  found 
in  divergent  sects  and  the  incessant  agitation  of 
unbridled  religious  enthusiasm  only  modes  of 
partisanship  and  levers  of  political  ambition; 
their  religion  was,  at  least,  compatible  with  a 
vigorous  secular  life.  On  the  theatre  of  history 
religious  events  gave  to  politics  their  dramatic 
form,  at  moments  of  crisis;  but  the  religious 
life  of  the  community  is  not  to  be  found  in  them, 
but  rather  in  facts  of  more  usual  nature  and 
daily  occurrence.     The  cardinal  fact,  and   one 


82    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

that  swallowed  up  all  the  others,  from  this 
point  of  view,  was  the  extraordinary  develop- 
ment of  saint  worship;  its  mortal  efflorescence 
and  fossilized  deposit,  so  to  speak,  was  this  strata 
of  tombs,  koubbas,  which  cover  the  region.  The 
Marabout,  to  give  the  saint  his  peculiar  desig- 
nation, was  a  man  bound  to  religion,  and  was 
called  the  "friend  of  God";  he  was  revered  in 
his  life,  and  in  his  death  be  became  the  protector 
of  the  locality  of  his  tomb,  the  intermediary  of 
prayer  to  Allah,  whose  personality  he  obscured 
and  tended  to  displace  in  practice.  It  was 
natural  that  the  cult  of  saints  should  flourish 
in  such  a  superstitious  population;  and  the  coun- 
try itself,  by  its  inaccessible  character  —  desert 
and  wilderness  —  lent  itself  to  hermit  lives,  to 
types  of  the  religious  brooder  and  mystic,  the 
solitary,  with  his  dreams,  illusions,  and  trances. 
Religious  consecration  was  also  a  protection  in 
a  country  of  rapine  and  disorder,  and  a  source 
of  profit  among  a  credulous  people.  There  was, 
indeed,  in  the  circumstances  everything  to  favor 
such  an  order  of  men.  It  appears,  also,  that 
in  the  time  of  the  great  exodus  of  the  Moors 
from  Spain,  a  considerable  body  of  fugitives, 
learned  men,  found  refuge  in  the  Zaouia  of 
Saguiet-el-Hamra,  a  famous  monastery  in  Mo- 
rocco;   and  the  labor  of  these  "men  of  God," 


TLEMCEN  83 

pious  and  ardent,  who  seemed  to  be  almost  of 
another  order  of  beings  between  mankind  and 
the  divinity,  is  sometimes  assigned  as  the  orig- 
inal source  of  the  magnitude  of  the  develop- 
ment of  saint  worship  in  these  regions.  It  was 
they  who  "Koranized"  the  tribes,  a  body  of 
missionary  monks,  educated,  devoted,  with  the 
traits  of  apostolic  zeal  and  ascetic  temperament. 
There  were  Marabouts  long  before  their  day,  but 
to  them  and  their  example  may  be  due  the  fact 
that  the  tombs,  the  holy  koubbas,  increase  to- 
ward the  west,  beyond  Algiers  and  in  Morocco, 
where  they  "star"  the  earth. 

The  lives  of  the  Algerian  saints,  of  which 
many  may  be  read,  do  not  differ  materially 
from  that  kind  of  biography  in  any  religion. 
Every  village  has  its  patron  saint,  its  "master 
of  the  country,"  as  he  was  called,  and,  as  at 
Tlemcen,  one  may  oust  another  with  the  lapse 
of  time.  The  koubba  was  a  shrine,  a  local 
hearth  of  religious  life  and  practice,  and  the 
worship  of  the  shrine  was  the  near  and  warm 
fact  in  daily  experience;  the  veneration  of  the 
Marabout  appears  to  hold  that  place  in  the  hearts 
of  the  people  where  religion  is  most  human. 
The  Marabout  himself  was  of  many  types,  rang- 
ing from  plain  idiocy,  as  was  the  case  of  Sidi 
bou-Djemaa  on  the  hill  above  Mansourah,  to 


84    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

the  mystic  height,  the  "pole  of  being,"  as  was 
the  case  of  Sidi  bou-Medyen  on  the  hill  above 
Agadir.  He  was  miracle-worker,  thaumaturgist, 
medicine-man,  and  might  be  consulted  for  all 
human  events,  from  cattle  disease  to  thief 
hunting ;  he  was  a  preacher,  a  doctor  of  the  law, 
an  agitator,  a  recluse,  a  madman,  anything  out 
of  the  common;  and  the  story  of  the  legends 
runs  the  whole  gamut  of  friar,  anchorite,  and 
fanatic  in  all  religious  history.  Women,  in  par- 
ticular, gathered  about  him  and  his  shrine.  In 
a  region  and  civilization  where  there  was  no 
effective  mastery  of  authority  or  reason,  given 
over  to  individual  initiative  in  a  haU-barbarized 
mental  condition,  such  a  development  was  en- 
tirely natural;  and  the  landscape  itself  is  the 
history  and  mark  of  it  —  there  is  a  koubba  on 
every  hilltop,  in  the  beds  of  the  streams,  on 
the  slopes  of  the  plains  —  sometimes  clumps  of 
them;  in  every  prospect  emerges  the  shining 
white  cube  of  the  holy  tomb. 

VI 

The  secular  phase  of  Berber  life  in  these  ages 
is  vividly  illustrated  in  the  person  and  career 
of  Yarmorasen  Ben  Zeiyan,  the  founder  of  the 
first  kingdom  of  Tlemcen.     He  belonged  to  the 


TLEMCEN  85 

tribe  of  Abd  el-Wad,  who,  with  their  cousins, 
the  Beni-Merin,  under  the  pressure  of  the  Arabs 
of  the  second  invasion,  came  up  from  the  des- 
ert and  took  possession  of  the  coast,  the  former 
about  Tlemcen  and  the  latter  in  Morocco.  For 
many  years  these  tribes,  under  the  Almohades, 
had  exercised  feudal  rights  over  the  country; 
they  came  north  in  the  spring  and  summer,  and 
collected  tribute  from  the  agriculturalists  and 
tow^nsmen,  and  returned  in  winter  to  their  des- 
ert homes  wuth  the  supplies  they  had  thus  ob- 
tained. Their  rise  has  been  termed,  not  in- 
aptly, a  renaissance  of  the  Berber  race  power, 
as,  indeed,  the  entire  history  of  the  Berbers 
was  a  series  of  explosions  of  national  force,  suc- 
ceeding each  other  in  one  or  another  place  at 
long  intervals,  but  impotent  to  found  a  perma- 
nent political  state.  Yarmorasen  was  of  the 
type  of  Tamburlane;  a  simple  Berber,  he  was 
unable  to  speak  Arabic,  but  he  had  military 
and  organizing  genius,  became  chief  and  con- 
queror, and  founded  the  dynasty  with  which 
the  glory  of  Tlemcen  began.  At  the  moment 
the  Almohades  were  nearing  their  fall.  The 
country  is  described  as  in  anarchy:  everywhere 
the  spirit  of  revolt  broke  out,  the  people  re- 
fused to  pay  taxes,  brigands  infested  the  great 
routes,  the  officials  were  shut  up  in  the  towns, 


86    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

the  country  people  were  without  protection;  the 
region  was  at  the  mercy  of  its  nomad  masters. 
It  was  then  that  Yarmorasen  found  his  op- 
portunity, seized  independent  power,  and  estab- 
Hshed  order  such  as  was  known  to  that  civihza- 
tion.  He  was  a  great  man  of  his  race,  brave, 
feared,  honored,  who  understood  the  interests 
of  his  people,  political  administration,  and  the 
art  and  ends  of  rule.  He  reigned  forty-four 
years,  amid  continuous  war;  he  was  defeated 
early  in  his  career  by  the  ruler  of  Tunis,  but 
the  victor  could  find  no  better  man  on  whom 
to  devolve  the  government  than  the  foe  he  had 
overthrown;  and  it  is  an  interesting  point  to 
observe  that  his  ambassador  of  state,  on  this 
occasion,  who  made  the  treaty,  was  his  mother. 
He  was  respectful  of  the  rights  of  courtesy,  at 
least,  and  won  applause  by  his  kind  treatment 
of  the  sister  and  women  of  the  Almohad  prince 
he  overthrew,  sending  them  back  to  their  own 
land  under  escort. 

In  the  battle  which  marked  the  fall  of  the 
Almohades  and  the  independence  of  Tlemcen 
there  were  characteristic  incidents.  The  van 
of  the  march  of  the  old  princes  was  led  by  the 
Koran,  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  famous 
copies,  which  the  Almohades  had  captured  from 
the  Moors  of  Grenada  and  rebound  and  incrusted 


TLEMCEN  87 

with  jewels;  it  was  borne  on  a  dromedary,  and 
enclosed  in  a  silk-covered  coffer  surmounted 
by  a  beautiful  palm;  small  flags  fluttered  from 
the  corners,  while  before  it  floated  a  great  white 
banner  on  a  long  staff.  It  was  thus  that  the 
Almohades  always  went  out  to  war.  When  the 
two  armies  stood  in  battle  order,  the  women  on 
both  sides  ran  through  the  ranks  with  uncov- 
ered faces  and  by  their  cries,  gestures,  and  looks 
animated  their  warriors  to  fight.  A  similar 
scene  is  described  by  a  modern  author  in  writ- 
ing of  a  Kabyle  village  feud;  the  battle-field, 
he  says,  was  the  dry  bed  of  a  torrent,  between 
two  slopes;  on  the  heights  of  the  ravine  on  either 
side  stood  the  women,  barefooted,  bare-armed, 
uttering  sharp  cries  which  crossed  over  the  heads 
of  the  fighters.  *'They  are  all  there,  their 
mothers,  their  wives,  their  sisters,  their  daugh- 
ters, serried  one  against  another  like  the  flowers 
of  a  crown;  even  the  widows  whose  husbands 
were  killed  in  the  last  spring  combat,  even  the 
revoltees  who  had  left  their  husbands  declaring 
they  would  no  longer  serve  them,  —  all  adorned 
and  painted  for  the  battle.  Rich  or  poor, 
young  or  old,  beautiful  as  idols  or  disfigured 
by  age  and  suffering,  they  are  all  together, 
their  arms  interlaced,  their  eyes  wide  and  full 
of  fire,  at  the  foot  of  each  village,  a  confused 


88    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

mass  of  ornaments,  bright  colors  and  miserable 
rags,  lifted  by  one  movement,  erect  with  hate 
and  terror."  The  men  charge,  fire  point-blank, 
engage  hand  to  hand  with  their  yatagans  — 
"better  a  hundred  times  die  here  than  go  back 
to  the  village,  because  their  women  will  that 
they  should  die."  It  was  such  a  scene  when 
Yarmorasen  fought  with  the  Almohad  prince, 
Es-Said. 

Yarmorasen  was  more  than  a  fighter;  he  was 
an  enlightened  governor.  Tlemcen  was  then  a 
double  city  —  Agadir  and  Tagrart,  not  an  ar- 
row's flight  between  them.  Tagrart  had  been 
the  "camp"  of  the  invading  Almoravides,  who 
had  taken  Agadir,  and  as  victor  it  was  now  the 
city  of  the  functionaries  and  government,  while 
the  people  —  the  old  inhabitants  —  continued  to 
live  in  Agadir.  Yarmorasen  cared  for  both,  and 
built  the  minaret  of  Agadir,  and  also  that  of 
the  grand  mosque  of  Tlemcen,  but  he  declined 
to  inscribe  his  name  upon  them,  saying:  "It 
is  enough  that  God  knows."  He  built  other 
public  works  and  the  city  grew  into  a  thriving 
capital,  not  only  of  war,  but  of  residence  and 
trade,  and  also  became  famous  for  its  schools. 
Among  other  learned  men  whom  his  reputation 
as  a  protector  of  the  liberal  arts  attracted  to 
his  court  was  one,  brilliant  in  that  century, 


TLEMCEN  89 

Abou  Bekr  Mohammed  Ibn  Khattab,  whose 
story  especially  interested  me.  He  was  a  poet, 
and  commanded  not  only  a  fine  hand,  but  a 
beautiful  epistolary  style.  Yarmorasen  made 
him  the  first  secretary  of  state,  and  he  wrote 
despatches  to  the  lords  of  Morocco  and  Tunis 
so  elegantly  composed  that,  says  the  Arabian 
historian  Tenesi,  they  were  still  learned  by 
heart  in  his  day;  and  he  adds  that  with  this 
poet  the  art  of  writing  diplomatic  despatches 
in  rhymed  prose  ceased.  The  Berber  prince 
deserves  grateful  memory  among  poets  as  the 
last  patron  of  a  lost  grace  of  the  art,  not  likely 
to  find  its  renaissance  ever;  and  they  must  read 
with  pleasure  the  starry  and  flowery  titles  with 
which  the  chroniclers  adorn  his  glory  —  the  mag- 
nanimous, the  lion-heart,  the  bounteous  cloud, 
the  shining  rose,  the  kingliest  of  nobles,  the 
noblest  of  kings,  the  well-beloved,  the  sword  of 
destiny,  the  lieutenant  of  God,  crown  of  the 
great.  Emir  of  the  Moslems,  Yarmorasen  Ben 
Zeiyan. 

He  left  a  line  of  strong  and  brilliant  rulers 
who  were  warriors  first  of  all,  for  the  glorious 
age  of  Tlemcen  was  a  period  of  intense  life, 
and  the  little  city  had  often  to  battle  for  its 
existence.  It  suffered  reverses;  not  long  after 
the  death  of  Yarmorasen  a  contemporary  Ara- 


90    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

bian  traveller  thus  depicts  it:  "This  city  is 
very  beautiful  to  see,  and  contains  magnificent 
things;  but  they  are  houses  without  inhabitants, 
estates  without  owners,  places  that  no  one  vis- 
its. The  clouds  with  their  showers  weep  for 
the  misfortunes  of  the  town,  and  the  doves  on 
the  trees  deplore  its  destiny  with  their  moan- 
ing cry."  Its  recovery,  however,  must  have 
been  rapid,  for  in  the  next  reign  Tachfin  found 
time  in  the  intervals  of  war  to  build  the  Great 
Basin  and  a  beautiful  college,  and  he  reared 
also  the  minaret  of  the  great  mosque  at  Al- 
giers. These  were  the  years  of  the  life-and- 
death  struggle  with  the  Beni-Merin,  of  which 
Mansourah  is  the  monument.  The  great  siege 
had  been  sustained  and  the  peril  beaten  back; 
but  now  the  enemy  returned,  and  from  a  new 
Mansourah  on  the  same  site  they  directed  their 
attack  so  well  that  they  took  Tagrart,  old  Tlem- 
cen  —  Tachfin,  the  king,  falling  in  battle.  The 
victor,  Abou'l-Hasen,  was  a  worthy  conqueror 
and  the  founder  of  the  artistic  Mansourah,  that 
I  have  described,  with  its  palace,  its  mosque, 
and  its  columns;  he  made  the  new  city  his 
royal  residence,  over  against  Tagrart  as  Tag- 
rart had  stood  over  against  Agadir,  and  he 
adorned  the  suburbs  of  the  old  city;  he  built 
the  mosque  and   college  of  Sidi   bou-Medyen, 


TLEMCEN  91 

and  his  son  the  mosque  of  our  good  Saint  Bon- 
bon; he  was  an  art-loving  prince  and  a  wide 
victor,  magnificent  in  royal  presents  which  he 
exchanged  with  the  Sultan  of  Egypt,  and  in  all 
ways  glorious;  but  I  remember  him  best  as  the 
conqueror  who,  after  he  had  swept  the  coast  of 
Africa  to  the  desert  limit,  returning,  stood  on 
that  solitary  beach  at  Mahdia,  that  so  impressed 
me,  and  "reflected  on  the  lot  of  those  who  had 
preceded  him,  men  still  greater  and  more  power- 
ful on  the  earth."  But  this  domination  of  the 
Beni-Merin,  who  after  all  were  cousins,  lasted 
only  a  score  of  years;  and  the  line  of  Yarmo- 
rasen  came  to  its  own  again,  in  the  person  of 
Abou-Hammou,  of  the  younger  branch.  He 
had  been  born  and  bred  in  Andalusia,  and  was 
an  accomplished  prince.  He  wrote  a  book  upon 
the  art  of  government  for  the  education  of  his 
son,  which  may  be  read  now  in  Spanish,  and 
he  was  a  great  patron  of  learning;  he  built  a 
beautiful  college,  adorned  with  marble  columns, 
trees  and  fountains,  for  his  friend,  the  sage 
Abou-ben-Ahmed,  attended  the  first  lecture  and 
endowed  the  institution  with  sufiicient  property 
for  its  maintenance.  He,  too,  labored  in  war; 
but  the  remarkable  trait  of  these  princes  of  the 
rude  Berber  stock  is  that,  notwithstanding  the 
state  of  instant  and  long-continued  warfare  in 
which   they  held   their  lives   and   power,   they 


92    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

were  as  great  builders  as  warriors,  and  unceas- 
ing in  their  patronage  of  learning  and  the  arts. 
This  was  the  great  age  of  the  city  in  the  reigns 
I  have  touched  on.  A  score  of  descendants 
carried  on  the  rule  through  another  century  to 
the  scene  of  trade,  war,  and  study  that  Leo  the 
African  portrays  in  the  city.  He  describes  the 
various  aspects  of  this  great  market  of  the  des- 
ert, its  buildings,  and  especially  its  four  classes 
of  citizens,  merchants,  artisans,  soldiers,  and 
students.  Of  these  last  he  says:  "The  scholars 
are  very  poor  and  live  in  colleges  in  very  great 
wretchedness;  but  when  they  come  to  be  doc- 
tors, they  are  given  some  reader's  or  notary's 
office,  or  they  become  priests."  Alas,  the 
scholar's  life!  Doubtless  it  was  the  same  in  Yar- 
morasen's  time.  It  is  a  pathetic  thing  to  me 
to  think  of  those  thousands  of  poor  free  schol- 
ars, through  generations,  seeking  the  light  as 
best  they  could  in  this  university  city,  for  such 
it  was  —  what  a  record  of  seK-denial  and  dep- 
rivation, of  belief  in  the  highest,  of  living  on 
the  bread  of  hope !  But  it  was  all  to  end  — 
the  old  Tlemcen  —  with  the  coming  of  the  Turk; 
he  came  in  the  peculiarly  atrocious  form  of  the 
pirate,  Aroudj,  master  of  Algiers,  who  gathered 
all  the  young  princes  of  the  old  blood  royal,  a 
numerous  band,  and  drowned  them  in  the  Great 
Basin. 


TLEMCEN  93 


VII 


In  the  brilliant  years  of  Tlemcen,  during  which 
it  was  a  spray  of  the  flowering  branch  of  Anda- 
lusian  art,  what  is  most  striking  and  remains  on 
the  mind  with  a  touch  of  surprise  is  the  sense 
of  the  long  and  various  contact  of  the  Berber 
world  with  inherited  Mediterranean  civilization. 
We  are  accustomed  to  think  of  the  north  coast 
of  Africa  as  a  much-isolated  country;  but  no 
place  in  the  world  is  ever  so  isolated  as  it  may 
seem  to  be;  and  the  connection  of  the  North 
African  peoples  with  the  centres  of  Christian 
history  was  never  broken  from  the  first  Chris- 
tian ages.  Some  Christian  communities  were 
encysted  among  the  Berbers  by  the  first  Arab 
invasion;  in  the  tenth  century  there  were  still 
five  bishoprics  among  them.  Charlemagne  sent 
an  embassy  to  Kairouan  in  respect  to  the  relics 
of  some  saint  at  Carthage,  in  the  reign  of 
Ibrahim,  the  Aglabite,  who  received  it  with 
great  splendor.  The  trade  of  the  country  was 
of  vast  territorial  extent,  reaching  the  Soudan 
and  Central  Africa  and  the  furthest  Moham- 
medan East;  in  the  eleventh  century  negotia- 
tions were  entered  into  with  the  Papacy  with  a 
view    to    attracting    Christian    merchants    and 


94    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

markets.  En-Nacer,  a  prince  of  the  Hamma- 
dites,  sent  presents  to  Gregory  VII,  including 
all  his  Christian  slaves.  The  contact  with  the 
Christians  as  enemies,  in  Sicily,  Spain,  and  on 
the  sea,  was  incessant  in  the  period  of  Moslem 
power.  Christians,  too,  made  a  part  of  the 
mercenary  troops  of  the  Moslem  armies;  the 
Beni-Merin  are  said  to  have  had  at  one  time 
twelve  thousand  such  troops,  and  Yarmorasen 
had  two  thousand,  who  mutinied  and  were  slain; 
these  were  the  last  of  the  Christian  cavalry  in 
Moslem  pay. 

Contact  with  the  old  civilization  was  still 
more  intimate  and  continuous  toward  the  East 
in  commerce  and  the  arts.  The  Berber  tribes 
of  the  coast  had  contained  artisans  from  Roman 
times;  but  the  Arabs  were  from  the  beginning 
dependent  on  civilization  for  all  articles  of 
luxury,  and,  especially  in  their  religious  needs, 
for  the  architectural  arts.  The  mosque  was 
built  on  the  plan  of  Byzantine  churches,  and  the 
Greeks  and  Persians  became  the  masters  of 
construction  and  decoration  in  building;  Roman 
temples  and  palaces  and  Christian  churches 
were  the  quarries  from  which  materials  were 
taken.  The  great  mosque  at  Kairouan  is  "a 
forest  of  columns"  of  antique  make,  and  in  this 
it  is  an  example  of  a  general  practice.     Original 


TLEMCEN  95 

building  came  slowly  into  being,  and  was  rudely 
imitative.  The  Andalusian  art,  as  it  is  called, 
the  special  form  in  which  the  Moorish  genius 
embodied  itself,  was  evolved  in  Spain,  and  its 
history  is  incompletely  made  out;  for  although 
the  Alhambra,  together  with  other  examples  at 
Seville  and  Cordova,  is  its  most  perfect  product, 
yet  the  art  was  developed  also  on  the  Moroccan 
side  of  the  strait,  and  its  creations  at  Fez,  Mar- 
rakeck,  and  other  points  still  await  thorough 
examination  and  study.  The  examples  at  Tlem- 
cen  belong  to  this  African  branch  of  the  art, 
which  w  as  patronized  by  the  early  king  of  Tlem- 
cen,  and  was  most  illustrated,  perhaps,  by  the 
Benl-Merin  prince  in  his  reign  at  Mansourah; 
for  his  predecessors  at  Fez  had  been  rulers  on 
both  sides  the  strait,  and  were,  therefore,  in  more 
immediate  contact  with  the  sources  of  the  art, 
which,  however,  had  already  by  reason  of  the 
emigrant  Andalusians  made  Fez  a  noble  Moor- 
ish city.  As  compared  with  Fez,  Tlemcen  was 
provincial. 

The  Berber  princes  ruled  over  a  border  state 
continually  at  war,  and  their  city  retained  the 
rudeness  of  the  nomad  life;  they  were  kings  of  a 
master-warrior  caste  among  the  other  elements 
of  the  population,  but  with  a  pride  in  public 
works   and   a   delight   in   decorative   luxury,   a 


96    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

capacity   for   civilization   and   elegance,   which 
transformed  them  into  accomplished  princes  of 
Andalusian   culture,    like   their   neighbors.     In 
realizing  their  ambitions  they  were,  however, 
dependent  on  the  aid  of  their  neighbors;    they 
obtained  both  workmen,  architects,  and  in  some 
cases  material  already  wrought,  from  Spain,  and 
especially  from  the  lord  of  Andalusia,  Abou'l- 
Walid,  who  sent  them  the  ablest  artisans  he 
could  command.     The  legend  that  the  bronze 
plates  of  the  door  of  the  mosque  of  Sidi  bou- 
Medyen  were  miraculously  floated  there  from 
abroad  doubtless  contains  the  truth  that  they 
w^ere  brought  from  Spain.     Some  of  the  tiles  are 
of  foreign  manufacture.     The  art,  whether  in 
spirit,  style,  or  skill,  is  to  be  looked  on  as  an 
importation,  though  it  achieved  its  works  on 
the  spot.     It  affords  admirable  examples,  and 
they  are  of  uncommon  purity,  since  each  new- 
comer did  not  restore  and  refashion  older  work 
in  current  modes  of  later  skill  or  taste,  but  left 
it,  as  the  Arabs  will,  to  its  own  decay;   this  art 
is  seen,  therefore,  very  often  just  as  it  was  in 
its  first  creation  save  for  the  ravage  of  time. 

It  was  not  an  art  of  structure,  though  at 
times,  as  in  the  tower  at  Mansourah,  it  has 
structural  nobility,  or,  as  elsewhere,  lines  of 
grace;    neither  the  architects  nor  the  workmen 


TLEMCEN  97 

were  expert  builders,  and  they  treated  structural 
elements  —  the  column,  the  arch,  the  dome  —  dec- 
oratively;  these  were  subordinated  to  a  decora- 
tive intention.  The  genius  for  decoration,  how- 
ever, found  its  main  channel  in  the  treatment  of 
surfaces,  sometimes  curved  and  limited,  but  usu- 
ally flat  and  spacious.  It  sprang  rather  from  the 
art  of  graving  than  of  modelling,  and  flowered  es- 
pecially in  the  line — arabesque.  The  line  was  em- 
ployed in  a  series  of  geometric  patterns  —  squares, 
polygons,  circles  —  symmetrically  arranged,  and 
mingled  with  more  or  less  distinctness;  or  in 
rectihneal  or  curvilineal  combinations  that  were 
also  patterns,  repeated  indefinitely ;  or  in  form- 
alized script  based  on  calligraphy.  The  ori- 
gins of  this  mode  go  far  back  into  antiquity; 
but  its  predominant  use  is  the  special  trait  of 
Moorish  decoration.  The  second  main  feature 
of  the  art  was  in  its  color  —  mosaic.  It  is  true 
that  the  lineal  decoration  of  plaster  and  wood 
was  painted,  in  red,  blue,  and  olive-green,  but 
this  color  has  disappeared;  for  our  eyes,  so  far 
as  color  is  concerned,  it  is  the  mosaic  that  has 
survived;  and  here,  too,  the  mosaic  sometimes 
borrows  its  interior  designs  from  the  patterns  of 
lineal  decoration.  The  origin  of  this  mosaic  is 
also  lost  in  antiquity;  the  art  in  one  or  another 
of  its  forms  had  long  been  widely  diffused  in  the 
Mediterranean  world.    The  Roman  soil  of  Africa 


98    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

had  been  covered  with  mosaic  floors,  which  may 
still  be  seen  in  beautiful  and  varied  collections 
of  them  at  Tunis  and  Sousse;  Byzantine  work, 
such  as  is  found  at  Ravenna  and  in  Sicily,  was 
a  living  art  through  the  Middle  Ages;  and  the 
contemporary  Persian  manufacture  of  tiles  and 
similar  work  passed  everywhere  in  the  commer- 
cial world,  and  may  be  closely  connected  tech- 
nically with  the  art  in  Andalusia.  It  was  for 
exterior  decoration  that  the  mosaic  faience  was 
principally  employed.  The  motives  of  the  lineal 
decoration  are  few  —  disks,  stars,  and  the  like 
—  and  in  the  floral  design  only  the  acanthus 
formalized  is  used;  similarly,  the  colors  of  the 
mosaic  are  few  —  manganese-brown,  white,  cop- 
per-green, iron-yellow,  rarely  blue.  The  combi- 
nation of  these  few  elements  —  colors  and  pat- 
terns—  is  unrestricted  by  any  limit,  they  are 
undefined  by  any  form,  they  grow  by  accretion, 
and  they  thus  obtain  and  give  the  quality  of  the 
infinite,  the  illimitable,  which  is  the  most  obvious 
trait  of  the  arabesque.  It  is  an  art  that  plays 
with  form  only  to  escape  from  it,  whether  in 
color  or  in  line. 

The  charm  of  this  art  does  not  lie  merely  in 
its  perfect  fitness  to  its  light  and  cheap  materials, 
nor  in  its  easy  solving  of  its  own  problems,  but 
rather  in  its  kinship  to  the  Arab  genius,  its  re- 
sponse to  the  desert  spirit.     This  is  most  deeply 


TLEMCEN  99 

felt  in  the  mosques,  where  it  is  in  contact  with 
the  gravest  things  in  Hfe.  The  mosque  is  the 
plainest  of  sacred  places,  and  delights  a  Puritan 
soul.  There  are  no  images  of  humanized  deities 
or  deified  men;  there  is  neither  god  nor  saint 
nor  mythic  story;  neither  is  there  any  mystery 
of  dogma  or  speculation  to  be  told  in  symbolism 
of  material  things;  there  is  only  unbodied  and 
unformulated  religious  awe,  the  worship  of  the 
spirit  in  the  spirit.  The  art  that  defines  has 
here  no  function.  The  Western  genius,  master 
of  life,  is  a  defining  genius;  the  oriental  way  is 
different  —  it  is  an  effusion,  an  expansion,  an 
illimitable  going  forth.  This  art,  too,  with  its 
few  motives,  its  paucity  of  fact,  its  monotony 
of  structure,  yet  issuing  always  on  the  illimitable, 
the  infinite,  resumes  the  structure  of  the  desert, 
which  is  similar  in  its  elements  and  effects,  its 
composition  and  its  sentiment.  It  is  also  com- 
pletely free  from  the  burden  of  thought,  the  fatal 
gift  of  Western  genius  with  its  hard  definings, 
too  avid  of  knowing,  whose  art  is  rather  a  means 
to  cage  than  to  free  the  bird  of  life.  It  is  an 
art  restorative  of  the  senses  in  their  own  king- 
dom —  whether  in  line  or  color,  a  pure  joy  to 
the  eye,  a  "disembodied  joy,"  too,  as  art  should 
be,  full  of  abstraction,  yet  unconscious  of  any- 
thing beyond  the  sensuous  sphere.  It  is  easy 
to  sum  its  salient  technical  points  and  to  indi- 


100    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

cate  its  obvious  affinities  with  the  mosque,  with 
desert  nature,  with  the  Arab  genius;  but  even 
though  he  see  it,  one  cannot  easily  appreciate 
it  in  its  decay,  nor  well  imagine  it  in  its  fresh 
beauty,  as  a  visible  harmony  for  the  soul,  w^ith- 
out  some  initiation  into  the  fundamental  moods 
of  the  race  for  whom  and  of  whom  it  was.  To 
me,  nevertheless,  the  sight  was  a  pure  delight, 
as  is  the  memory;  a  nomad  art  it  seemed,  born 
of  the  desert  and  expressive  of  it,  an  evanescence 
of  beauty  playing  on  fragile  and  humble  mate- 
rials, as  life  in  the  desert  is  fragile  and  humble, 
and  clad  in  the  evanescence  of  nature  —  life 
not  too  seriously  valued,  sure  of  speedy  ruin, 
not  worthy  of  too  great  outward  cost. 

VIII 

I  WENT  out  into  the  night  on  my  last  evening 
and  wandered  in  the  dark  streets  till  the  falling 
gleam  of  a  Moorish  cafe  drew  me  into  its  shadowy 
spaces,  where  I  drank  a  cup  of  coffee,  listening 
to  sudden  snatches  of  native  music  and  observing 
the  swarthy  and  stalwart  Arabs  where  they  were 
banked  up  on  a  sort  of  high  stage  at  my  left. 
It  was  a  characteristic  but  dull  and  lifeless  scene. 
At  a  later  hour  I  visited  the  moving  pictures. 
The  large,  obscure  shed  was  jammed  full  of 
rough-looking  men  and  boys,  French  soldiers  in 


TLEMCEN  101 

many  colors,  and  Arabs  in  hanging  folds,  with 
life-worn  faces,  often  emaciated;  but  I  noted  as 
a  general  characteristic  that  self-contained,  self- 
rehant  immobility  of  countenance  that  is  the 
type  of  border  men;  it  was  the  crowd  of  a  fron- 
tier town.  I  went  back  to  my  hotel  under  the 
keen  midnight  sky  at  last,  thinking  of  the  long 
and  crowded  life  of  the  historic  past  in  this  old 
caravanserai  of  the  desert  tribes,  of  the  scenes 
of  which  I  had  been  reading  —  the  Koran-led 
army,  the  battle  of  the  women,  the  palace  feasts, 
night-long,  where  pages  swung  rose  censers 
among  the  guests  and  the  revelry  ended  with 
the  morning  prayer;  of  the  great  figures  —  the 
scholar-saint,  Sidi  bou-Medyen,  the  ascetic  revo- 
lutionary, Ibn  Toumert,  the  Berber  shepherd  boy 
who  found  a  kingdom,  the  world  conqueror  by 
the  sea  at  Mahdia,  the  young  princes  drowned; 
of  the  desert  courage  that  had  flashed  here,  a 
sword  from  the  scabbard,  of  the  desert  piety 
that  had  here  flung  away  the  jewel  of  life  a 
thousand  times,  of  the  generations  of  desert 
idealists  who  in  the  crowded  schools  had  walked 
the  way  of  light  as  it  was  vouchsafed  to  them; 
and  in  the  waking  reality  of  the  French  border 
town,  whose  night  scene  had  depressed  me,  it 
seemed  an  Arabian  dream. 


FIGUIG 


Ill 

FIGUIG 


I  WOKE,  in  the  train,  on  the  high  plateaus. 
Dawn  —  soft  green  and  pallid  gold,  lumi- 
nous, then  dying  under  a  heavy  cloud  while 
faint  pink  brightened  on  the  sides  of  the  great 
horizon  —  opened  the  lofty  plain,  boundless  and 
naked,  thinly  touched  with  tufts  of  vegetation; 
as  far  as  one  could  see,  only  the  elements  — 
color,  cold,  swathing  wild  herbage  on  rugged 
soil;  and  far  off,  alone,  the  haze  of  an  abrupt 
mountain  range.  It  was  the  steppe  beyond 
Khreider.  The  vast,  salt  chott  of  El-Chergui, 
that  streaks  the  middle  of  the  steppe  with  its 
waste  and  quicksands,  lay  behind ;  but  its  saline 
arms  still  clung  to  and  discolored  the  surface, 
and  whitened  the  view  westward  with  dull  crys- 
talline deposits.  This  wide  blanching  of  the 
gray  and  red  soil  striped  and  threw  into  relief 
the  rigid  scene  —  aridity,  vacancy,  solitude, 
from  which  emerged  the  still  grandeur  of  inani- 

105 


106    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

mate  things.  It  was  the  characteristic  scene  of 
the  high  plains  —  a  vague  monotony,  colored 
with  sterile  features  flowing  on  level  horizons. 
As  the  train  ascended  nature  seemed  still  to  un- 
clothe and  uncover,  to  strip  and  peel  the  land; 
but  not  continuously.  From  time  to  time  the 
steppe  lapsed  back  to  a  thicker  growth  of  tough- 
fibred  alfa,  whose  home  is  on  these  plains,  and 
bore  other  dry,  sparse,  darkish  desert  plants 
upon  reddish  hummocks;  on  this  pasturage  dis- 
tant herds  of  camels  browsed  unattended,  as  on 
a  cattle-range,  in  the  wild  spaces  fenced  by  roll- 
ing sands;  then  the  climbing  train  would  soon 
pass  again  amid  low  dunes.  Few  stations,  at 
long  intervals;  isolated,  meagre,  they  seemed 
lost  in  the  spreading  areas,  mere  points  of  sup- 
ply; the  most  important  was  but  a  village,  with 
sickly  trees;  but  they  took  on  an  original  char- 
acter. They  were  fortified;  obviously  built  for 
defence,  with  sallies  and  retreats  in  their  walls; 
guarded  casemates  obliquely  commanding  all 
avenues  of  approach  and  the  walls  themselves; 
doors  that  were  meant  to  shut.  It  was  a  rail- 
way in  arms,  a  line  of  military  posts,  or  block- 
houses, as  it  were,  on  an  unsettled  border.  The 
sight  gave  a  tang  of  war  to  the  silence  of  the  un- 
inhabited country,  and  reminded  one  of  unseen 
tribes  and  of  the  harsh  frontier  of  Morocco  over 


FIGUIG  107 

opposite,  south  and  west.  Slowly  the  moun- 
tains sprang  up;  one  had  already  drifted  be- 
hind, Djebel-Antar;  and  now  the  peaks  of  the 
Saharan  Atlas,  rising  sheer  from  the  plain  a 
thousand  metres,  lay  on  either  hand,  bold  crests 
and  jutting  ranges  —  Djebel-Aissa  on  the  left, 
the  Sfissifa  on  the  right  in  the  southwestern  sky, 
Djebel-Mektar  straight  ahead.  We  had  passed 
the  highest  point  of  the  line  at  an  elevation  of 
thirteen  hundred  metres,  and  were  now  on  the 
incline  and  rapidly  approaching  the  last  barrier 
of  the  Sahara.  We  were  soon  at  the  foot  of 
Mektar.  It  was  Ain-Sefra,  an  important  mili- 
tary base. 

But  I  did  not  think  of  war;  to  me  Ain-Sefra 
is  a  name  of  literature  and  has  a  touch  of  per- 
sonal literary  devoir;  for  there  in  the  barren 
Moslem  cemetery,  outside  the  decaying  ksar,  is 
buried  the  poor  girl  who  taught  me  more  about 
Africa  than  all  other  writers;  she  had  the  rare 
power  of  truth-telling,  and  lived  the  life  she 
saw;  her  books  are  but  remnants  and  relics  of 
her  genius,  but  she  distilled  her  soul  in  them  — ■ 
one  of  the  wandering  souls  of  earth,  Isabelle 
Eberhardt.  She  was  only  twenty-seven,  but 
years  are  nothing  —  she  had  drunk  the  cup  of 
life.  Here  she  died  in  the  oued,  the  torrent 
river  whose  bottom  I  was  now  skirting,  a  wide, 


108    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

dry  watercourse,  strewn  with  stones,  and  with 
roughly  indented  banks.  It  was  dry  now,  but 
on  these  denuded  uplands  and  surfaces,  after  a 
rainfall,  which  is  usually  torrential,  it  fills  in  a 
moment  with  a  furious  sweep  and  onset  of 
waters;  and  thus  a  few  years  ago  it  rose  in  the 
October  night  and  tore  away  the  village  below 
the  high  ground  of  the  French  encampment; 
and  there  she  was  drowned.  The  echo  of  her 
soul  in  mine,  long  ago  at  Tunis,  was  the  lure  that 
drew  me  here. 

There,  before  my  eyes,  was  the  sight  I  had 
longed  to  see,  just  as  she  had  described  it.  I 
knew  it  as  one  recognizes  a  lighthouse  on  a  for- 
eign coast,  so  single,  so  unique  it  was  —  the  leap 
of  the  red  dunes  up  the  defile,  fierce  as  a  sword 
thrust  of  the  far  desert  through  the  mountains. 
That  was  Africa  —  the  untamed  wild,  the  bas- 
tion of  nature  in  her  barbarity,  the  savage  citadel 
of  her  splendid  forces  to  which  man  is  negligible 
and  human  things  unknown.  The  dunes  are 
golden-red,  tossed  like  a  stormy,  billowing  sea; 
they  charge,  they  leap,  they  impend  —  petri- 
fied in  air;  an  ocean  surf  of  red  sand,  touched 
with  golden  lights,  frozen  in  the  act  of  the  wild 
wind.  They  are  magnificent  in  their  lines  of 
motion,  in  their  angers  of  color;  but  the  spirit 
of  them  is  their  elariy  their  drive,  flung  forward 


FIGUIG  109 

as  if  to  ram  and  overwhelm  the  pass  with  a  wide 
sandy  sea.  The  hght  on  them  is  a  menace; 
they  threaten ;  nor  is  it  a  vain  threat;  they  move 
with  the  sure  fataHty  of  all  lifeless  things,  they 
will  invade  and  conquer  —  a  foe  to  be  reckoned 
with;  and  to  fend  the  valley  against  them,  man 
takes  a  garden,  trees,  plantations,  advancing  a 
van  of  life  against  all  that  lifelessness.  It  is  a 
superb  picture  there,  among  the  mountains,  a 
symbol  of  the  struggle  —  the  long  battle  of 
vegetable  and  mineral  forces,  clothing  and  deso- 
lating the  planet;  and  it  holds  the  rich  glow  of 
the  African  temperament,  a  spark  of  the  soul 
of  the  land. 

The  train  winds  on  in  the  bright  morning  air 
by  a  shining  koubba,  dark  palm  tufts,  and  the 
high,  silent  tricolor,  and  goes  down  the  oued, 
turns  the  mountain,  passes  into  the  rocks,  a 
strange  scene  of  stormy  forms  and  sterile  colors, 
and  makes  from  valley  to  valley  by  sharp  curves, 
from  oued  to  oued  by  deep  cuts,  piercing  and 
grooving  its  passage  to  lower  levels  through  the 
range  of  the  ksour.  Almost  from  the  first  it 
is  unimaginable,  that  landscape.  It  is  all  rock 
in  ruins,  denuded  and  shivered,  shelving  down, 
disintegrating;  fallen  avalanches  of  rotten  strata; 
every  kind  of  fracture;  whole  hills  in  a  state  of 
breaking  up  into  small  pieces,  pebbly  masses. 


no  NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

bitten,  slivered.  We  traverse  broken,  burnt 
fields  of  it,  all  shingle;  expanses  of  it  so,  beneath 
walls  cracked  and  scarified;  we  curve  by  scat- 
tered bowlders  of  all  sizes  and  positions,  down 
valleys  of  stones;  new  hills  open,  sharp-edged, 
jagged  —  continuous  rock.  All  outlooks  are  on 
the  waste  wilderness  crumbling  in  its  own  aban- 
donment; all  contours  are  knife-edges;  the  per- 
spectives are  all  of  angles.  In  the  near  open 
tracts  lie  relics  and  remains,  mounds,  mountains, 
and  hills  that  have  melted  away;  steep  lifts  on 
all  curves;  and  on  the  sky  horizon,  following  and 
crossing  one  another,  saw-toothed  ranges,  ob- 
liquely indented  with  sharp  re-entries,  or  else 
acute  cones  and  rounded  mamelons:  the  whole 
changing  landscape  a  ruin  of  mountains  being 
crumbled  and  split  and  blown  away.  It  is  an 
elemental  battle-field,  where  the  rock  is  the 
victim  —  a  suicide  of  nature.  In  this  region  of 
extreme  temperatures  with  sudden  changes  — 
burning  noons  and  frozen  nights,  torrid  summers 
and  winter  snows,  downpours  of  rainfall  —  the 
fire  and  frost,  wind  and  cloudburst  have  done 
their  secular  work;  they  have  stripped  and  pul- 
verized the  softer,  outer  rock  shell,  washed  it 
down,  blown  it  away,  till  the  supporting  granite 
and  schist  are  bare  to  the  bone.  It  is  a  skeleton- 
ized, worn  land,  all  apex  and  debris;    near  ob- 


FIGUIG  111 

jects  have  the  form  and  aspect  of  ruins,  the 
horizons  are  serried,  the  surfaces  calcined.  It 
is  an  upper  world  of  the  floored  and  pinnacled 
rock,  an  underworld  shivered  and  strewn  with 
its  own  fragments,  a  "gray  annihilation"  —  of 
the  color  of  cinders.  I  imagine  that  the  land- 
scapes of  the  moon  look  thus. 

A  mineral  world,  bedded,  scintillant,  flaked. 
It  is  dyed  with  color.  All  life  has  gone  from  it, 
and  with  the  departure  of  life  has  come  an  in- 
tensification, an  originality,  an  eflflorescence  of 
mineral  being.  The  earlier  stages  of  the  ride  — 
the  red  mountains  striped  beneath  with  black, 
beyond  the  middle  ground  of  a  prevailing  red- 
dish tint  sparsely  scattered  with  a  vegetation  of 
obscure  greens  and  dull  grays  amid  strong  earth 
colors,  once  with  the  bluish-black  of  palm-trees 
blotting  the  distance  —  I  remember  now  almost 
as  fertility.  Here  there  is  not  a  leaf  —  nor  even 
earth  nor  sand.  It  seems  rock  devastated  by 
fire,  like  volcanic  summits.  A  sombre  mag- 
nificence, a  fantastic  grandeur!  Blue-grays, 
browns,  and  ochres  of  every  shade  gleam  on  the 
slopes  of  the  hillsides;  reds  splash  the  precipices 
and  walls;  innumerable,  indescribable  tones,  too 
gloomy  to  be  called  iridescence,  shimmer  over 
the  mid-distance  and  die  out  in  twilights  of 
color  amid  the  manganese  shadows,  on  the  cold 


112    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

limestone  heights,  in  the  sandstone  gullies. 
Where  I  can  see  the  surfaces  of  the  shivered 
stones,  I  notice  their  extraordinary  smoothness. 
There  are  purples  and  black-greens  and  violets 
among  them,  but  for  the  most  part  they  are 
black,  like  soot;  for  amid  this  fantastic  colora- 
tion, what  gives  its  sombreness  to  the  scene  — 
the  trouble  of  the  unfamiliar  —  and  grows  most 
menacing,  is  the  black.     The  land  is  oxidized 

—  blackened ;  its  shivered  floor  is  strewn  with 
black  stones;  black  stripes  streak  its  sides  far 
and  near;  amid  all  that  mineral  bloom  it  is  to 
black  that  the  eye  returns,  fascinated,  enthralled. 
It  invades  the  spirits  with  its  prolonged  weird- 
ness;  it  awes  and  saddens.  And  all  at  once  we 
emerge  from  a  deep  ravine  —  oh,  la  belle  vie  ! 

—  a  sea  of  dark  verdure  makes  in  from  below, 
like  a  fiord,  among  the  naked  mountains  round 
it  —  silent,  mysterious,  living,  the  green  of  the 
palm  oasis;  and  swiftly,  after  that  stop,  we  dip 
into  the  black  gorges  beyond  Moghrar,  more 
sombre,  sinister  —  valleys  of  the  color  and  as- 
pect of  some  strange  death,  the  incineration  of 
nature  in  her  own  secular  periods,  the  passing 
of  a  planet.  Slowly  vegetation  begins  —  tufts 
amid  the  rock  interstices,  desert  growths,  the 
chaufleur  saharienne,  the  drin,  the  thyme,  plants 
of  ashen-gray,  stiff,  sapless;    trees  now  —  be- 


FIGUIG  113 

toums,  feeble  palms;  a  beaten  track  with  a  trio 
of  Bedouin  Arabs.  It  is  the  oued  of  the  Zous- 
fana;  and  we  debouch  on  the  far  prospect  — 
off  to  the  right  the  oases  of  Figuig,  oblong  dark 
spots  on  the  foot-hills  of  Morocco,  and  before 
us  to  the  left  the  great  horizons  of  the  Sahara, 
the  hamada.  Five  hours  from  Ain-Sefra.  It  is 
Beni-Ounif. 

I  descended  from  the  train  amid  groups  of 
soldiers.  I  lose  my  prejudice  against  a  uniform 
when  it  is  French  or  Italian;  and  in  North  Africa 
the  blue  of  the  tirailleur,  the  red  of  the  spahi, 
are  a  part  of  the  mise  en  scene.  These  were  sol- 
diers of  the  Foreign  Legion.  I  had  been  familiar 
with  their  uniform,  too,  in  the  north  at  Oran, 
and  particularly  at  Sidi-bel-Abbes,  one  of  their 
rendezvous;  and  I  saw  it  again  with  friendly 
eyes,  for  all  that  I  had  here  —  harborage,  secu- 
rity, freedom  to  come  and  go  —  did  I  not  owe  it 
to  them.^  The  Sud-Oranais  is  their  work,  like 
so  much  else  in  Algeria.  I  trudged  through  the 
sand,  a  young  Arab  tugging  at  my  baggage  and 
guiding  me,  to  the  hotel,  which  occupied  a  cor- 
ner of  an  extensive  flat  building  of  Moresque 
style,  rather  imposing  with  its  towers  though  it 
was  only  of  one  story,  on  a  street  that  seemed 
preternaturally  wide  because  all  the  buildings 
were  likewise  of  one  story.     The  whole  little 


114    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

town,  a  mere  handful  of  low,  fragile  blocks, 
looked  strangely  desolate  and  lonesome,  for- 
saken, isolated,  dull.  The  host  received  me 
pleasantly  —  I  was  the  only  guest  to  arrive, 
and  there  was  no  sign  of  another  occupant  — 
and  took  me  to  my  room  in  the  single  corridor; 
it  was  clean  and  suflScient  —  a  bed,  a  basin,  and 
a  chair;  a  small,  heavily  barred  window,  at  the 
height  of  my  head,  looked  on  a  large,  vacant 
court.  So  this  was  the  terre  "perdue.  I  was  "far 
away."  "The  brutality  of  life  —  "  I  was  "clean 
quit"  of  it,  like  a  lark  in  the  blue,  like  a  gull  on 
the  gray  sea.  ^'  Adieu,  mes  amis,"  I  thought. 
Where  had  I  read  it  —  "The  man  who  is  not  a 
misanthrope  has  never  loved  his  fellow  men." 

There  was  a  knock  at  my  door:  "Monsieur, 
some  one  to  see  you."  It  came  w^ith  a  shock, 
for  the  solitude  had  begun  to  seize  me.  I  went 
toward  the  office.  A  young  soldier  of  the 
Legion  approached  me,  full  of  French  grace, 
with  a  look  of  expectancy  on  his  fine  face.  "I 
heard  there  was  an  American  here,"  he  said  in 
EngHsh;  "I  did  not  believe  it,"  he  added;  "I 
came  to  see."  "Yes,"  I  said,  "I  am  an  Ameri- 
can." "There  hasn't  been  one  here  in  two 
years  —  not  since  I  came,"  he  spoke  slowly  — 
keen,  soft  tones.  "South  American?"  he  ven- 
tured.    "No,"   I  said,  melting.     "Truly  from 


FIGUIG  115 

the  United  States  —  where?"  His  look  hung 
on  my  face.  *'I  was  born  near  Boston,"  I  re- 
pHed,  interested.  "I  was  born  in  Boston."  I 
shall  never  forget  the  gladness  of  his  voice,  the 
light  that  swept  his  eyes.  A  quick,  soldierly 
friending  seized  us  —  the  warmth  that  does  not 
wait,  the  trust  that  does  not  question.  In  ten 
minutes  he  was  caring  for  me  like  a  younger 
brother,  introducing  me  with  my  letters  at  the 
Bureau  Arab,  doing  everything  till  he  went  to 
his  service.  In  the  evening  we  met  again,  and 
so  the  lonely  journey  of  the  day  ended  in  an 
African  sunset,  as  it  were,  of  gay  and  brilliant 
spirits,  for  I  know  of  no  greater  joy  than  the 
making  of  friends.  He  was  of  French  parentage, 
and  the  only  American  in  the  Legion;  at  least, 
he  had  never  seen  nor  known  of  another.  And 
I  went  to  bed  thinking  of  the  strange  irony  of 
life,  and  how  the  first  thing  that  the  terre  perdue 
gave  me  was  the  last  thing  I  expected  in  the 
w^ide  world  —  a  friend. 


II 

I  WENT  by  myself  to  visit  the  old  ksar,  the 
native  village  which  had  occupied  this  site  be- 
fore the  coming  of  the  French  and  the  rise  of 
the  new  town  about  the  railway.     It  lay  some 


116    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

little  distance  to  the  west  of  the  track  —  a 
collection  of  palm-trees,  with  a  village  at  the 
farther  end,  backed  by  a  white  koubba.  My 
Arab  boy,  who  had  never  lost  sight  of  me,  had 
me  in  charge,  and  led  the  way.  We  crossed  into 
the  strip  of  barren  country  and  saw  the  ksar 
with  its  palmerai  before  us,  like  a  rising  shoal  in 
the  plain.  Accustomed  as  my  eyes  are  to  large 
horizons,  this  country  had  an  aspect  of  solitari- 
ness that  was  extraordinary.  The  sand-blown 
black  rock,  the  hamada,  lies  all  about;  the 
mountains  of  the  Ksour  that  back  the  scene  to 
the  northeast  are  reddish  in  color  and  severe  in 
outline,  and  the  mountains  of  Morocco,  cut  here 
by  three  passes,  block  it  to  the  north  and  west 
with  their  heavy  and  wild  masses,  while  other 
detached  heights  are  seen  far  off  to  the  south. 
From  this  broken  ring  of  bare  mountains,  red 
and  violet  and  gray,  the  rocky  desert  floor, 
blown  with  reddish  sand,  makes  out  into  the 
open  distance  interminably  to  horizons  like  the 
sea.  In  the  midst  of  this  the  little  ksar  with  its 
trailing  palm-trees,  Beni-Ounif  with  its  slender 
rail  and  station,  its  white  redoubt  and  low 
buildings,  with  the  Bureau  Arab  and  its  palms 
a  little  removed,  seem  insignificant  human  de- 
tails, mere  markings  of  animal  life,  in  a  prospect 
where  nature,  grandiose  in  form  and  without 


FIGUIG  117 

limit  in  distance,  exalted  by  aridity,  is  visibly 
infinite,  all-encompassing,  supreme.  The  sun 
only,  burning  and  solitary,  seems  to  own  the 
land.  The  moment  one  steps  upon  the  windy 
plain  it  is  as  if  he  had  put  to  sea;  he  is  alone 
with  nature,  and  the  harshness  of  the  land  gives 
poignancy  to  his  solitude. 

We  walked  over  rough  ground  awhile,  and 
then  crossed  the  dry  bed  of  a  oued,  one  of  the 
channels  that  in  time  of  flood  lead  the  waters 
down  to  the  Zousfana,  whose  shrunken  stream 
flows  in  its  wide  rocky  bottom  some  distance  to 
the  north  of  the  ksar  toward  the  mountains; 
and  we  climbed  up  on  the  farther  side  by  crum- 
bling footpaths  that  run  on  little  uneven  ridges 
of  dry  mud,  twisting  about  in  a  rambling  way, 
with  small  streams  to  cross,  which  groove  the 
soil;  and  so  we  came  into  the  gardens.  The 
aspect,  however,  is  not  that  of  a  garden;  the 
background  of  the  scene  is  all  dry  mud,  whose 
moulded  and  undulating  surface  makes  the  soil, 
while  the  little  plots  are  divided  by  mud  walls, 
high  enough  at  times  to  give  some  shade  and 
meant  to  retain  the  irrigating  waters.  There 
are  a  few  patches  of  barley,  very  fresh  and  green; 
but  for  the  most  part  the  plots  are  filled  with 
trees  —  fig-trees,  old  and  contorted,  with  their 
heavy  limbs,  the  peach  and  almond  with  fragile 


118    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

grace  and  new  tender  green,  the  pomegranate 
and  the  apple,  and  rising  above  them  the  palms 
whose  decorative  forms  frame  in  and  dignify  the 
little  copses  of  the  fruit-trees,  and  unite  them; 
but  the  dry  mud  makes  an  odd  contrast  with 
the  branching  green  of  varied  tints  and  gives  a 
note  of  aridity  to  the  whole  under  scene.  The 
plots  vary  only  in  their  planting,  and  were  en- 
tirely deserted.  We  came  through  them  to  the 
ksar  itself  with  its  wall.  It  is  built  of  dry  mud, 
which  is  the  only  material  used  here  for  walls 
and  houses  alike.  The  rain  soon  gives  them  a  new 
modelling  at  best,  and  this  ksar  is  old  and  ruined, 
half  abandoned  now  that  the  French  town  is 
near.  The  outer  wall  is  much  broken,  with  the 
meandering  shapelessness  of  abandoned  earth- 
works —  scallops  and  indentations,  the  smooth 
moulding  and  mud  sculpture  of  time  on  the 
golden  soil;  and  off  beyond  it  stretches  the 
endless  cemetery,  with  the  pointed  stones  at  the 
head  and  foot  of  the  graves,  a  tract  of  miser- 
able death,  so  simple,  naked,  and  poverty-struck, 
and  yet  in  such  perfect  harmony  with  the  sterile 
and  solitary  scene,  that  it  does  not  seem  sad 
but  only  the  natural  and  inevitable  end.  It 
belongs  to  the  desert;  it  is  its  comment  on  the 
trivial  worthlessness  of  human  life,  whose  mul- 
titude of  bones  are  heaped  and  left  here  like  the 


FIGUIG  119 

potter's  shard.  The  sun  beats  down  on  the 
wide  silence  of  that  cemetery;  the  sand  blows 
and  accumulates  about  the  rough  stones  that 
seem  to  lie  at  random;  there  is  no  distinction 
of  persons  there,  no  sepulchral  apparelling  of  the 
mortal  fact,  no  illusion,  no  deception;  it  is  the 
grave  —  "whither  thou  goest."  And  it  is  not 
sad  —  no  more  than  the  naked  mountains  of 
the  Ksour,  the  dark  Morocco  heights,  the  silent 
sunlight;  it  is  one  with  them  —  it  is  nature. 
On  its  edge  toward  the  ksar  rises  the  koubba  of 
the  saint,  Sidi  Slimane  bou-Semakha,  the  an- 
cient patron  of  the  country;  it  is  the  only  spot 
of  this  old  Moslem  ground  that  no  infidel  foot 
has  trod;  there  his  body  reposes  in  its  wooden 
coflSn,  hung  with  faded  silks  within  its  carved 
rail  in  the  white  chamber,  secluded  and  sacred, 
and  the  faithful  sleep  in  the  desert  outside.  It 
is  a  world  that  has  passed  away. 

The  ksar  itself  was  like  all  others  in  this 
region.  They  are  walled  villages  adjoining  the 
palmerai  that  feeds  them;  the  houses  are  built 
of  sun-baked  earth  supported  on  small  palm 
beams  and  lean  serried  one  upon  another  in 
continuous  lines  and  embankments;  narrow 
alleyways  and  passages  honeycomb  them,  often 
with  a  roofing  of  the  same  palm  beams,  so  that 
one  walks  in  underground  obscurity ;  externally, 


120    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

owing  to  their  old  and  weather-worn  aspect, 
they  have  a  general  ruinous  look.  The  walls 
on  the  street  are  bhnd;  here  and  there  in  dark 
corners  a  seat  for  loungers  is  hollowed  out  in 
the  side;  there  is  somewhere  a  square  for  judg- 
ment where  is  the  assembly  of  the  elders,  and 
by  the  mosque  or  koubba  an  open  space.  There 
is  always  a  life  outside  the  walls,  a  place  for 
market,  for  caravans  to  stop,  encampments  of 
all  sorts.  All  have  a  look  of  dilapidation.  But 
this  old  ksar  had  more  than  that;  it  was  obvi- 
ously in  a  state  of  ruin  and  abandonment. 
Walls  had  fallen,  exposing  the  wretched  interiors, 
cave-like,  mere  cellarage.  There  was  no  one 
there.  I  passed  through  some  of  the  covered 
ways  —  blank  obscurity,  with  holes  of  naked 
sunlight.  I  did  not  see  half  a  dozen  living  fig- 
ures; they  were  unoccupied,  listless,  marooned. 
It  was  still  —  a  stillness  of  death.  I  found  the 
sources,  the  underground  streams  that  supply 
the  little  oasis;  there  were  three  or  four  young 
negro  girls  standing  in  the  water  in  discolored 
bright  rags;  they  pointed  out  to  me  the  blind 
fish  in  the  water.  ^^Cest  dcfenduy'  said  my 
Arab  boy  when  I  asked  him  to  catch  one.  Life 
seemed  defendu.  The  air  was  moribund.  It 
was  a  decadence  of  the  very  earth.  I  was  glad 
to  have  the  hot  sun  on  my  back  again  by  the 


FIGUIG  121 

tall  palms  and  green  fruit-trees  springing  out 
of  their  dry-mud  beds,  and  I  sat  down  on  a 
crumbling  wall,  amid  the  amber  deliquescence 
of  the  rich-toned  soil,  and  looked  back  on  that 
landscape  of  decay,  and  sought  to  reconstruct 
in  fancy  the  desert  life  of  its  silent  years. 

It  was  an  old  human  lair.  Its  people,  the 
ksouriens,  who  lived  here  their  half-underground 
life,  sheltered  from  the  burning  blasts  of  the 
summer  sun  and  the  bitter  winds  of  winter, 
were  a  settled  townfolk,  with  their  oasis  agricul- 
ture and  simple  desert  market.  The  ruling  race 
were  the  descendants  of  some  Marabout;  for  the 
Moslem  saint  was  a  patriarch,  and  one  finds 
whole  villages  that  claim  to  be  originated  from 
some  one  of  them;  these  men  were  the  propri- 
etors of  the  gardens,  which  were  tilled  by  native 
negroes  or  Soudanese  slaves  and  their  progeny, 
a  servile  breed;  and  there  were  Jews,  who  were 
compelled  to  live  apart,  a  pariah  caste.  Out- 
side were  the  Berber  and  Arabized  nomad  tribes, 
scattered  and  living  in  fractions,  who  went  from 
place  to  place  for  the  pasturage  of  their  flocks; 
their  chiefs  and  head  men  were  desert  raiders, 
who  took  toll  by  tribute  or  pillage  of  the  cara- 
vans traversing  their  country,  and  made  forays 
on  their  neighbors;  the  people  of  the  ksar  held 
a  feudal  relation   to  these  desert  lords.     The 


122    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

most  secure  units  of  property  in  the  land  were 
the  zaouias,  or  monasteries,  bound  to  hospital- 
ity and  charity,  and  ruled  by  Marabout  stocks; 
their  gardens  and  flocks  had  a  protective  char- 
acter of  sacredness,  the  goods  of  God.  Society 
was  in  a  primitive  form  of  uncohering  fragments, 
very  independent,  self-centred,  uncontrolled; 
though  it  was  of  one  faith,  hostility  pervaded 
it;  feuds  were  its  annals;  it  had  pirate  blood. 
A  pastoral,  marauding,  sanguinary  world,  with 
elements  of  property  and  aristocracy,  but  dem- 
ocratic within  itself,  with  slaves  and  outcast 
breeds;  a  world  of  simple  wants  but  always 
half  submerged  in  misery;  a  world  of  the  strong 
arm.  In  such  a  world  the  ksouriens  lived  here 
by  the  mountain  passes.  They  saw  those  old 
nomad  tribes  go  by  that  mounted  to  Tlemcen 
and  drank  the  bright  cup  of  the  Mediterranean 
for  a  season;  but  the  ksouriens  had  forgotten 
them;  their  passage  was  only  a  wrinkling  of  the 
desert  sand.  Caravans  stopped  by  the  brown 
walls;  raiders  rode  by  to  the  desert;  the  seven 
ksars  of  Figuig  fought  petty  wars,  one  on  an- 
other, on  the  hill  opposite;  mountain  women 
pitched  their  striped  tents  by  the  cemetery  wall; 
the  Jews  worked  at  little  ornaments  of  silver 
and  coral;  there  was  a  coming  and  going  to  the 
fountain,  secret  and  ferocious  love,  the  woe  of 


FIGUIG  123 

poverty  and  hate  —  the  Arab  Hfe  of  violence 
and  ruse  and  silence,  in  the  palm  gardens,  the 
underground  passages,  the  darkened  streets; 
a  life  of  obscurity  and  somnolence;  and  the 
ksouriens  grew  pale  like  wax,  with  their  black 
beards  and  corded  turbans,  and  the  old  Arab 
vitality  melted  in  their  bones.  The  hours  that 
no  man  counts  rolled  over  the  languid  ksar, 
where  white  figures  sat  in  the  seats  in  the  earthen 
wall  along  the  covered  streets  in  the  silence;  the 
unborn  became  the  living  and  the  stones  multi- 
plied in  the  cemetery;  and  there  was  no  change, 
I  could  almost  hear  the  bugle  note  yonder  that 
brought  a  new  world  of  men.  And  now  the 
ksar  was  dead. 

The  moon,  almost  at  the  full,  was  growing 
bright  in  the  eastern  sky;  the  mountains  of  the 
Ksour,  that  still  took  the  setting  sun,  glowed 
with  naked  rock,  rose-colored;  on  the  left  the 
mountains  of  Figuig  lay  in  black  shadow,  with 
the  violet  defiles  between,  clear-cut  on  the 
molten  sky.  As  I  stepped  on  the  rise  of  Beni- 
Ounif  it  was  already  night;  the  brilliant  white 
moon  flooded  the  hard  landscape  with  winter 
claritj^;  the  unceasing  wind  blew  cold.  It  was 
a  solemn  scene. 


124    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


III 


"Monsieur,  le  spahi."  I  went  out  in  the 
early  morning  air  and  found  my  escort  for 
Figuig,  a  tall,  dark  Arab,  almost  black,  his  head 
capped  with  a  huge  turban  wound  with  brown 
camel's  rope  in  two  coils,  and  his  form  robed  in 
a  heavy  white  burnoose  that  showed  his  red 
trousers  beneath;  he  held  two  horses,  one  tall 
and  strong,  for  himself,  the  other,  smaller  and 
lighter,  a  mare,  for  me.  My  friend  soon  joined 
us  with  his  mount,  and,  glancing  at  my  mare  as 
I  also  mounted,  warned  me  not  to  rein  her  in 
straight  with  that  bit,  as  it  was  thus  that  the 
Arabs  trained  their  horses  to  rear  and  caper, 
and  a  strong  pull  might  bring  her  up  unexpect- 
edly on  her  hind  legs,  and  that,  he  said,  was  all 
I  need  be  careful  about.  We  trotted  off  easily 
enough  down  the  street  toward  the  railway, 
and  in  a  few  moments  turned  the  last  building 
and  were  on  the  route  westward  over  the  open 
plain.  The  old  ksar  lay  far  off  to  the  left,  the 
Zousfana  to  the  north,  and  between  was  the 
unobstructed  stretch  of  the  rocky  hamada,  herb- 
less  and  strewn  with  small  and  broken  stones, 
to  where  we  saw  a  line  of  straggling  palms  be- 
neath the  Morocco  hillside.     The  air  was  brisk 


FIGUIG  125 

and  cool  —  just  the  morning  for  a  gallop.  The 
temptation  was  too  great  for  my  mare,  who 
showed  no  liking  for  her  neighbors,  and,  after 
a  few  partly  foiled  attempts,  struck  boldly  off 
the  trail  to  the  left.  I  minded  my  instructions 
and  had  no  desire  to  see  what  she  could  do  on 
her  hind  legs.  I  had  neither  whip  nor  spur.  I 
gave  her  her  head.  I  was  likely  to  have  a  touch 
of  the  Arab  fantasia,  and  I  did.  I  settled  my- 
self hard  in  the  saddle  as  she  flew  on;  she  was 
soon  at  the  top  of  her  speed;  it  was  the  gallop 
of  my  life.  Her  feet  were  as  sure  as  they  were 
fleet  on  the  pathless,  rocky  plain;  she  avoided 
obstacles  by  instinct;  and  if  she  came  to  a  dry, 
ditch-like  channel  now  and  then  that  cut  the 
level,  with  a  slight  retardation  for  the  spring 
she  jumped  it,  as  if  that  were  the  best  of  all. 
But  it  was  a  pace  that  would  end.  After  a  mile 
or  so  she  breathed  heavily,  and  I,  seeing  some 
Arab  tents  pitched  not  far  away,  turned  her 
toward  them,  thinking  she  might  regard  it  as 
a  friendly  place,  and  so  brought  her  up  quite 
blown  and  with  heaving  sides.  Three  or  four 
Arabs,  very  friendly  and  curious,  ran  up,  and 
I  dismounted.  "Mechantey  mcchante,''  they  kept 
saying;  and  I  looked  at  the  shallow  glitter  of 
the  mare's  eyes,  as  she  turned  them  on  me  to 
see  the  rider  she  had  got  the  better  of,  and  for 


126    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

my  part  I  said  ^^Furbo**  —  something  that  I 
learned  in  Italy.  My  friend  came  riding  up 
after  a  little  to  know  where  I  was  going,  and 
said  he  thought  I  was  "having  a  little  fun"; 
and  the  spahi  rode  in,  and,  dismounting,  also 
with  a  *'  mcchante,''  changed  horses  with  me.  I 
said  good-by  to  the  friendly  Arabs,  and  we  rode 
off  straight  north  to  the  route  from  which  I  had 
involuntarily  wandered ;  but  it  was  a  fine  morn- 
ing gallop. 

We  came  without  further  incident  to  the  line 
of  scattered  palms,  amid  a  very  broken  country, 
where  the  ascent  makes  up  to  Figuig,  enclosed 
in  a  double  circle  of  walls.  Figuig  is  the  name 
of  the  whole  district.  It  includes  a  lower  level 
where  is  the  ksar  of  Zenaga  and  its  vast  palmerai, 
and  a  higher  level  on  which  are  scattered  the 
other  six  ksars  amid  their  gardens.  All  are 
built  of  sun-dried  mud,  as  are  also  the  two  walls, 
the  inner  being  furnished  with  round  towers  at 
frequent  regular  intervals.  We  went  on  amid 
a  confusion  of  gardens  —  fruit-trees  with  veg- 
etables under  them,  such  as  beans  and  onions, 
and  plots  of  bright  barley  in  the  more  open 
places,  but  mostly  palms,  with  little  else,  all 
springing  out  of  the  dry  mud;  we  were  past  the 
ruinous-looking  stretches  of  the  brown,  sun- 
basking  wall,  and  began  to  be  lost  in  a  narrow 


FIGUIG  127 

canyon,  as  it  were,  up  which  the  rude  way 
went  between  the  enclosed  gardens.  There  was 
hardly  width  for  our  horses  as  we  rode  in  single 
file  on  the  uneven,  climbing  path  that  seemed 
something  like  the  bed  of  a  torrent,  and  indeed 
every  now  and  then  water  would  break  out  from 
underground  and  pour  down  like  a  cascade  or 
swift  brook,  with  a  delicious  sound  of  running 
streams.  On  either  side  the  garden  walls  rose 
a  great  height  far  over  our  heads,  and  above 
them  brimmed  branches  of  fruit-tree  tops  with 
the  splendid  free  masses  of  palms  hanging  dis- 
tinct and  entire  in  the  bit  of  blue.  We  seemed 
to  be  walled  out  of  a  thick,  fertile,  and  beautiful 
grove;  but  they  had  only  the  same  dry  mud  for 
their  bed  that  was  under  our  feet  in  the  narrow, 
tortuous  way.  The  sun  had  begun  to  be  hot 
before  we  left  the  plain,  and  now,  in  spite  of  the 
shelter  of  the  walls,  the  heat  began  to  make 
itself  felt;  there  was  the  dust  of  the  country, 
too,  which,  slight  as  it  was  that  day,  is  omni- 
present; so,  being  both  very  thirsty,  my  friend 
and  I  dismounted  at  a  place  where  the  running 
water  came  fresh  from  the  yellow  ground,  and 
we  drank  a  very  cooling  draught  of  its  brown 
stream.  It  is  the  scene  that  I  remember  best. 
It  was  like  a  defile  in  a  narrow  place;  the  way 
broadened  here  by  a  bend  in  the  steep  ascent; 


128    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

one  saw  the  brimming  gardens  below,  and  the 
view  was  closed  above  by  the  turn  of  the  walls; 
and  there,  in  the  hollow,  my  friend  and  I  leaned 
over  the  cascading  water  and,  turning,  saw  the 
spahi,  as  he  tightened  the  girths  of  my  saddle 
which  had  loosened,  under  those  walls,  brown 
in  the  shadow  and  an  orange  glow  in  the  sun, 
with  the  spring  green  starred  with  white  blossoms 
like  a  tender  hedge  above  their  yellow  tops,  and 
the  leaning  palms  in  the  blue.  It  had  a  strange 
charm;  and  the  water  made  music,  and  it  was 
solitude,  and  everything  there  was  of  the  earth, 
earthy  —  and  beautiful. 

We  came  out  shortly  at  the  top  of  the  ascent 
in  an  open  space  before  a  round  archway  in  a 
wall,  and  dismounted  in  a  scene  of  Moors  pass- 
ing in  and  out,  whom  I  photographed;  and  then 
we  walked  on  through  the  low-browed  little 
street,  which  offered  nothing  remarkable  except 
its  strangeness,  and  found  ourselves  at  the 
other  side  on  a  high  rocky  floor,  quite  moun- 
tainous in  look,  stretching  off  and  off  nowhere, 
which  is  the  neutral  ground  lying  about  all  the 
ksars;  it  looked  as  if  the  sun  and  wind  had  worn 
it  out,  and  it  had  a  rugged  grandeur;  a  distant 
horseman  on  it  seemed  uncommonly  tall  and  as 
solitary  as  a  ship  at  sea.  I  got  a  slim  palm 
wand  from  a  group  of  Arab  boys  to  use  as  a 


FIGUIG  129 

switch;  but  my  show  of  copper  coin  drew  some 
beggars  about  me,  very  insistent,  and  when  we 
mounted  and  rode  off  stones  followed  us.  I 
have  been  stoned  in  various  parts  of  the  world 
and  did  not  mind.  The  spahi,  however,  after 
the  incident,  took  up  his  station  behind.  We 
soon  reached  another  wall  with  a  gate,  on  one 
side  the  inevitable  cemetery,  with  its  pointed 
stones,  and  on  the  other  the  Morocco  army  in 
the  shape  of  a  small  squad  of  soldiers  in  soiled 
gorgeousness,  lying  about  on  the  ground  near 
their  guard-house.  They  did  not  have  a  very 
military  appearance,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
us  as  we  rode  into  the  ksar  and  struck  the  nar- 
row street,  which  was  the  main  thoroughfare. 
It  was  quite  animated,  with  many  passers-by, 
whose  oriental  figures  were  sharply  relieved  on 
the  walls  in  the  sun  or  grew  dark  in  the  shadow. 
The  houses  w^ere  low,  one  against  another,  and 
their  wall  space  was  broken  only  by  rude  doors; 
here  and  there  were  higher  buildings,  often  with 
little  oblong  windows  aloft,  with  the  effect  of  a 
ruined  tower,  or  broken-arched  fagade,  or  square 
donjon;  but  these  elements  were  rare,  though 
at  times  they  gave  an  architectural  ensemble  to 
little  views  against  the  sky  with  their  fine 
shadows.  Poor  habitations  they  are,  dilapi- 
dated and  meagre  they  look,  forlorn  and  melan- 


130    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

clioly  to  the  mind,  rubbishy,  tumble-down,  and 
ruinous  to  the  eye;  yet  the  air  of  ancientry  every- 
where dignifies  the  poor  materials,  and  the  sun 
seems  to  love  them;  human  life,  too,  clothes 
them  with  its  mysterious  aura.  The  crude  ob- 
ject partakes  of  the  light  it  floats  in,  and  every 
impression  fluctuates  momentarily  through  a 
whole  gamut  of  sense  and  sensibility;  for  there 
is  a  touch  of  enchantment  in  all  strangeness. 

We  dismounted  in  the  middle  of  the  street, 
half  blocking  the  way  with  our  horses,  by  a  cafe, 
whose  proprietor,  a  humble  and  life-worn  old 
man,  set  himself  to  prepare  us  a  cup  of  the 
peculiar  Morocco  tea  that  is  flavored  with  mint. 
There  were  a  few  passers-by,  and  I  busied  my- 
self with  my  camera.  The  cafe  was  a  mere 
hole  in  the  wall,  of  preternatural  obscurity,  con- 
sidering its  small  size  and  shallow  depth;  the 
furnace  and  the  teakettle  seemed  to  leave  hardly 
room  for  the  old  Arab  to  move  about.  I  found 
a  camp-stool  and  sat  down  opposite  the  low, 
dark  opening,  and,  the  tea  being  ready,  was 
drinking  it  with  much  relish;  it  was  truly 
delicious  with  its  strong  and  fragrant  aroma  of 
mint,  and  was  also  uncommonly  exhilarating. 
I  was  thus  engaged  when  two  particularly  ill- 
favored  Moors,  each  with  a  long  gun  over  his 
shoulder,  appeared,  and  planted  themselves,  one 


FIGUIG  131 

on  either  side  behind  my  shoulders,  as  close  as 
they  could  get  without  actually  pressing  against 
me,  and  gazed  stolidly  and  fixedly  down  at  me. 
I  paid  no  attention  to  them,  but  drank  my 
tea,  and  from  time  to  time  dusted  my  leather 
leggings  with  my  little  palm  wand.  It  was 
a  picturesque  group:  my  friend  in  his  shin- 
ing white  uniform,  unarmed,  leaning  carelessly 
against  the  wall  in  the  sun,  the  tall  spahi  op- 
posite in  the  shade  regarding  us,  the  two  Moors 
hanging  over  me  motionless,  and  no  one  said  a 
word.  After  a  while  they  seemed  to  have  had 
enough  of  it,  and  went  away  with  a  sullen  look. 
We  said  good-by  to  our  host  and  walked  on, 
the  spahi  following  on  horseback  at  a  distance 
of  several  yards,  well  behind,  and  two  boys 
leading  our  horses.  We  were  soon  in  the  cov- 
ered ways,  where  it  was  often  very  dark;  we 
met  hardly  any  one  —  a  negro  boy  or  a  woman ; 
the  doors  were  shut,  and  it  was  seldom  that  one 
left  ajar  gave  a  scant  view  of  the  interior;  nar- 
row alleys  ran  off  in  all  directions,  down  which 
one  looked  into  darkness;  but  if  we  stopped  to 
peer  into  them,  or  showed  curiosity,  the  metallic 
voice  of  the  spahi  would  come  from  behind, 
*'Marchez,"  and  at  the  frequent  turnings  of  the 
way  he  called,  in  the  same  hard  voice,  ''A  droite, 
ci  gauche'';  and  so  we  made  our  progress  through 


132    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

those  shadowy  vaults,  silent,  deserted,  in  the 
uncertain  light.  It  was  like  a  dead  city,  mo- 
tionless, hypnotized,  as  if  nothing  would  ever 
change  there,  with  a  sense  of  repose,  of  negli- 
gence of  life,  of  calm,  as  if  nothing  would  ever 
matter;  occasionally  there  were  figures  in  the 
recesses  sunk  in  the  wall,  silent,  motionless  — 
dreamers;  one  white-bearded  old  man,  seated 
thus  under  an  archway  in  a  dark  corner,  seemed 
as  if  he  had  been  there  from  the  beginning  of 
time  and  would  be  found  there  on  the  judgment- 
day.  It  was  weird.  We  turned  a  corner  in  the 
darkness  and  came  on  a  large  group  —  perhaps 
a  score  —  of  young  children  at  play  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  street.  I  never  saw  such  terror. 
They  fled,  screaming,  in  all  directions,  swift  as 
wild  animals;  it  was  a  panic  of  such  instant  and 
undiluted  fear  as  I  had  never  imagined.  I  can- 
not forget  their  awful  cry,  their  distorted  faces, 
their  flight,  as  if  for  life,  the  moment  they  caught 
sight  of  us;   it  was  a  revelation. 

A  few  minutes  later  we  came  out  on  a  crowded 
square,  full  of  shops,  men  working  at  their  trades, 
others  lying  full  length  on  the  ground;  it  was  a 
small  but  busy  place  —  not  that  much  was 
being  done  there,  but  there  were  people,  and 
occupations,  and  human  affairs.  It  was  the 
gathering  seat  of  the  assembly  of  the  elders,  be- 


FIGUIG  133 

fore  whom  the  affairs  of  the  ksar  are  brought 
for  judgment.  No  one  paid  us  the  sHghtest 
attention;  and  after  looking  at  the  httle  stocks 
of  leather  and  grains  and  odds  and  ends,  and 
glancing  at  the  reclining  forms  that  gave  color 
and  gravity  to  the  ordinary  scene  of  an  Arab 
square,  we  entered  again  on  the  darkness  and 
somnolence  of  the  winding  streets,  where  there 
was  no  sun  nor  life  nor  sound,  but  rather  a  re- 
treat from  all  these  things,-  from  everything  vio- 
lent in  sensation  or  effort  or  existence;  places 
of  quiet,  of  cessation,  of  the  melancholy  of 
things.  We  emerged  by  a  mosque,  and  near  it 
a  cemetery  on  the  edge  of  the  ksar  —  such  a 
cemetery  as  they  all  are,  blind,  dishevelled  heaps 
of  human  ruins  marked  by  rough,  naked  com- 
mon stones,  the  desert's  epitaph  on  life,  inex- 
pressibly ignominious  there  in  the  bright,  bare 
sunlight.  We  mounted  and  rode  down  through 
gardens,  as  at  first,  on  a  ridge  that  commanded 
now  one,  now  another  view  of  the  palm  and 
orchard  interiors  with  their  dry  beds,  a  strange 
mixture  of  barrenness  below  and  fertility  above, 
a  rough  but  pleasant  way;  and  all  at  once  we 
saw  the  great  palmerai  stretching  out  below  us 
in  the  plain,  like  a  lake  bathing  the  cliff,  a  splen- 
didness of  dark  verdure;  black-green  and  blue- 
black  lights  and  darks  filled  it  like  a  sea  —  cool 


134    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

to  the  eye,  majestic,  immense,  magnificent  in 
the  flood  of  the  unbounded  sunHght,  a  glory  of 
nature.  It  was  a  noble  climax  to  the  strange 
scenes  of  that  morning  journey;  and  soon  after 
we  dismounted  to  make  the  steep  descent  on 
the  gray -brown  rock  of  the  cliff.  The  two  boys, 
who  had  rejoined  us,  brought  down  our  horses, 
and  we  left  the  half -fallen  towers  and  crumbling 
walls  in  their  yelldw  ruin  behind  us,  with  the 
young  Arabs  still  looking,  and  rode  through  the 
hot  desert  to  Beni-Ounif. 

This  was  the  mysterious  Figuig  of  old  trav- 
ellers. I  had  seen  it,  but  it  still  seemed  to 
me  unrealized,  though  not  unreal.  A  vision  of 
palm-topped  garden  walls  on  crumbling  moun- 
tain paths;  of  a  wind-blown,  sunburnt  high 
plateau;  of  a  sun-drenched  gully  of  a  street 
with  a  strange-windowed,  lonely  ruin  looking 
down  on  horses  that  hang  their  heads;  a  maze 
of  darkened  passages  with  a  sense  of  lurking  in 
the  shadows,  of  decay  in  the  silence,  of  appari- 
tion in  the  rare  figures;  a  closed  city  of  hidden 
streams  and  muffled  noises,  walled  orchards  and 
shut  houses,  sunless  waj^s,  yet  held  in  the  sun's 
embrace,  the  high  blue  sky,  the  girdling  moun- 
tains, the  open  desert;  and  with  its  stern  and 
rocky  gardens  of  the  dead,  too;  a  soil  and  a 
people  made  in  the  image  of  Islam,  impregnated 


FIGUIG  135 

with  it,  decrepit  with  it,  full  of  lassitude  and 
melancholy  and  doom,  mouldering  away;  yet 
set  amid  living  fountains,  lighted  by  placid  res- 
ervoirs where  the  tall  palms  sun  themselves  in 
the  silent  waters  as  in  another  sky;  queen,  too, 
of  that  dark-green  sea  of  the  palmerai,  a  mar- 
vel of  nature;  and  last  a  vision  of  long-drawn 
walls  and  dismantled  towers  crumbling  in  the 
red  sun.  It  is  so  I  remember  it;  and  it  seems 
rather  a  mirage  of  the  desert  imagination  than 
a  reality,  a  memory. 

IV 

Beni-Ounif  was  dull.  There  was  nothing 
interesting  there  except  the  mise  en  scene.  It 
was  pleasant  to  be  dining  with  officers,  for  they 
were  the  principal  patrons  of  the  hotel,  with 
whom  stars  and  crosses  were  as  common  as 
watch-guards  in  New  York;  and  it  was  stimulat- 
ing to  see  the  ensigns  of  the  Legion  of  Honor 
where  they  were  something  more  than  the  inter- 
national compliment  of  a  ribbon  twisted  in  a 
black  buttonhole  and  had  their  heroic  meaning, 
a  decoration  on  an  officer's  breast.  The  crosses 
I  saw  stood  for  acts  of  bravery  on  the  field  of 
battle.  There  were  a  few  other  guests  who 
came  and  went,  a  French  hunter,  a  Belgian  pro- 


136    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

fessor  who  told  me  of  the  prehistoric  cabinets 
he  had  seen  farther  south,  an  officer's  remarka- 
ble collection,  and  explained  to  me  the  geology 
of  the  Sahara  in  brief  and  interesting  lectures. 
The  town  itself  never  lost  for  me  the  vacant  and 
makeshift  frontier  look  that  it  had  at  first  sight; 
one  could  walk  from  end  to  end  of  it  in  a  few 
minutes  and  come  out  on  the  desert,  which  was 
monotony  petrified.  Nothing  happened  except 
the  arrival  and  departure  of  the  daily  train. 
Once  I  met  on  the  edge  of  the  desert  the  gouniy 
a  compact  small  body  of  native  Arab  cavalry 
attached  to  the  French  arms,  a  splendid  squad 
of  fighting  men;  rather  heavy  and  broad-shoul- 
dered they  looked,  wrapped  in  burnoose  and 
turban,  mature  men  whose  life  was  war,  black- 
bearded,  large-eyed,  grim  —  predatory  faces; 
and  they  were  in  their  proper  place,  with  the 
naked  mountains  round  and  the  desert  under 
their  horses'  feet  —  a  martial  scene  of  the  old 
raiding  race.  I  should  not  like  to  see  them  at 
work,  I  thought;  their  trade  is  blood,  and  they 
looked  it  —  strong,  hard,  fierce  —  pitiless  men. 
But  usually  there  was  nothing  uncommon  to 
my  eyes.  Once  in  the  cafe,  where  we  sat  over 
our  long  glasses  of  the  fortified  liquors  and  tonic 
drinks  of  which  there  is  so  great  a  variety  in 
desert  towns,  some  one  brought  in  a  beautiful 


FIGUIG  137 

great  dead  eagle.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been 
killed  in  his  eyrie  to  see  him  there  on  the  desert 
among  the  soldiers.  We  returned  to  our  glasses 
and  our  talk:  tales  of  Paris,  tales  of  Odessa  in 
the  Revolution,  tales  of  long  Algerian  rides,  en- 
counters, anecdotes  of  the  road  —  what  tales ! 
And  other  men's  tales,  too  —  Anatole  France, 
Pierre  Loti,  Maurice  Le  Blanc,  Claude  Farrere, 
Pierre  Louys  —  all  my  favorites,  for  my  friend 
knew  them  better  than  I  did,  and  made  me  new 
acquaintances  "in  the  realm  of  gold"  that  I 
like  best  to  travel.  What  happy  talk!  and  the 
time  went  by.  I  went  out  alone  to  see  the  full 
moon  rise  over  the  solemn  desert  by  the  reddish 
hills  in  the  chill  air,  and  fill  the  great  sky  with 
that  white  flood  of  radiance  that  seemed  every 
night  more  ethereal,  more  remote  from  man- 
kind, more  an  eternal  thing;  and  at  the  hotel  we 
would  meet  again  to  dine  late,  for  my  friend 
being  a  private  soldier,  we  waited  till  the  offi- 
cers were  gone;  and  then  again  the  tales  and 
the  happy  talk,  and  good  night.  That  was  hfe 
at  Beni-Ounif. 

"Would  I  hke  to  go  to  the  theatre?"  I  re- 
peated, for  it  was  an  unexpected  invitation. 
"You  might  not  think  so,  but  there  is  a  theatre 
at  Beni-Ounif,"  said  my  friend.  So  it  appeared 
that  the  Legion,  among  the  multitude  of  things 


138    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

it  did,  occasionally  gave  a  performance  of  pri- 
vate theatricals  for  its  own  amusement,  and  my 
friend  himself  was  to  play  that  night.  It  was 
a  beautiful  evening  with  a  cold  wind.  I  made 
my  way  through  the  burly  military  group 
wrapped  in  heavy  blue  cloaks,  with  here  and 
there  a  burnoosed  spahi  or  tall  tirailleur,  and 
entering  the  small  hall  was  given  a  seat  in  the 
front  row  among  a  few  ladies  and  very  young 
children,  two  or  three  civilians,  my  Belgian 
acquaintance  being  one,  and  half  a  dozen  oflficers 
with  their  swords  and  crosses.  *'The  tricolor 
goes  well  with  the  palm,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I 
turned  to  look  at  the  prettily  decorated,  not 
overlighted  room,  where  trophies  of  the  colors 
alternated  with  panels  of  palm-leaves  on  either 
side  and  at  the  rear,  giving  to  the  scene  a  sim- 
ple, artistic  effect  of  lightness  and  gayety  with 
a  touch  of  beauty,  especially  in  the  palms. 
It  was  characteristically  French  in  refinement, 
simple  elegance,  and  color;  there  was  nothing 
elaborate,  but  it  was  a  charming  border  to  the 
eye,  and  no  framework  could  have  been  so  fit 
for  that  compact  mass  of  soldiers  as  was  this 
lightly  woven  canopy  of  French  flags  and  the 
desert  palm  on  the  bare  walls  of  that  rude  hall. 
But  it  was  the  men  who  held  my  eyes.  The 
room  was  packed  with  soldiers  of  the  Legion; 


FIGUIG  139 

a  few  spahis  and  tirailleurs  stood  in  the  rear  or 
at  the  sides;  there  was  no  place  left  to  stand 
even;  and  I  looked  full  on  their  serried  faces. 
My  first  thought  was  that  I  had  never  seen  sol- 
diers before.  I  never  saw  such  faces  —  mature, 
grave,  settled,  with  the  look  of  habitual  self- 
possession  of  men  who  command  and  obey; 
resolute  mouths,  immobile  features;  there  was 
great  sadness  in  their  eyes  that  seemed  to  look 
from  some  point  far  back,  heavy  and  weary; 
they  had  endured  much  —  it  w^as  in  their  pose 
and  bearing  and  on  their  countenances;  they 
had  ceased  to  think  of  life  and  death  —  one  felt 
that;  but  no  detail  can  give  the  human  depth 
of  the  impression  I  felt  at  the  sight  —  faces  into 
which  life  had  fused  all  its  iron.  And  there  was, 
too,  in  the  whole  mass  the  sense  of  physical  life, 
of  hardship  and  hardihood,  and  of  bodily  power 
to  do  and  bear  and  withstand  —  the  fruit  of  the 
desert  air,  long  marches,  terrible  campaigns  in 
the  sands.  It  was  a  sight  I  shall  always  re- 
member as,  humanly,  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able I  ever  looked  on. 

The  Foreign  Legion  is  commonly  believed  to 
be  made  up  of  broken  men  who  have  in  some 
way  found  themselves  eliminated  from  society, 
thrown  out  or  left  out  or  gone  out  of  their  own 
will,  whether  by  misfortune,  error,  disappoint- 


140    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ment,  or  any  of  the  various  chances  of  Ufe,  and 
who  have  joined  the  Legion  to  lose  themselves, 
or  because  they  did  not  know  what  else  to  do 
with  their  lives.  They  come  from  all  European 
nations  and  are  a  cosmopolitan  body;  and,  no 
doubt,  here  and  there  among  them  is  a  brilUant 
talent  or  a  fine  quality  of  daring  gone  astray; 
but  I  imagine  a  very  large  proportion  of  them 
are  simply  friendless  men  who  at  some  mo- 
ment of  abandonment  find  themselves  without 
resources  and  without  a  career,  and  see  in 
the  Legion  a  last  resource.  I  believe  there 
are  great  numbers  of  such  friendless  men  in 
our  civilization.  Among  the  thousands  of  the 
Legion  there  must  be,  of  course,  every  color  of 
the  human  past;  the  losers  in  life  fail  for  many 
reasons,  and  in  their  defeat  become,  it  may  be, 
incidentally  or  temporarily,  antisocial,  or  even 
habitually  so,  as  fate  hardens  round  them  with 
years;  but  in  a  great  number  of  cases,  I  believe, 
society  has  defaulted  in  its  moral  obligations  to 
them  before  they  defaulted  in  their  moral  obli- 
gations to  their  neighbors;  and,  holding  such 
views,  it  was  perhaps  natural  that,  so  far  from 
finding  the  Legion  a  band  of  outcast  adventurers 
and  derelicts,  I  found  them  very  human.  I  did 
not  read  romance  or  virtue  into  them.  I  know 
the  hard  conditions  of  their  lives.     If  there  be 


FIGUIG  141 

an  inch  of  hero  in  a  man,  he  is  hero  enough  for 
me.  The  story  of  the  French  occupation  of 
Algeria  is  largely  the  story  of  the  Legion.  For 
almost  a  century  it  has  been  one  of  the  most 
effective  units  of  the  French  army  all  over  the 
world;  and  here  in  Algeria  it  has  been  not  only 
a  fighting  force  of  the  first  order,  but  also  a 
pioneer  force  of  civilization.  The  legionaries 
have  built  the  roads,  established  the  military 
and  civil  stations,  accomplished  the  first  public 
works,  drained  and  planted;  they  have  laid  the 
material  foundations  of  the  new  order;  they 
have  not  only  conquered,  but  civihzed  in  the 
material  sense,  and  the  labor  in  that  land  and 
climate  has  been  an  enormous  toil.  The  recla- 
mation of  Africa  is  a  great  work,  sure  to  be 
looked  on  hereafter  as  one  of  the  glories  of 
France  in  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth  centuries, 
and  I  thought,  as  I  turned  and  the  band  began 
the  overture,  what  a  comment  it  was  on  society 
that  in  this  great  work  of  the  reclamation  of 
Africa  from  barbarism  and  blood  and  sodden 
misery  so  large  a  share  was  borne  by  this  body 
of  friendless  men  for  whom  our  civiUzation 
could  find  no  use  and  cared  not  for  their  fate. 
What  a  salvage  of  human  power  and  capacity, 
turned  to  great  uses,  was  there  here!  and  from 
moment  to  moment  I  looked  back  on  that  body 


142    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

of  much-enduring  men  with  a  keen  recurring 
sense  of  the  infinite  patience  of  mankind  under 
the  hard  fates  of  Ufe,  of  the  infinite  honor  and 
the  infinite  pity  of  it  all. 

To-night  all  was  light  gayety  and  pleasant 
jollity.  The  Legion  has  one  characteristic  of 
a  volunteer  regiment  —  its  men  can  do  every- 
thing, so  various  are  the  careers  from  which  it 
is  recruited.  Its  music  is  famous,  and  the  or- 
chestra played  excellently;  and  as  the  first 
little  play  began,  "Mentons  Bleus,"  the  players 
showed  themselves  good  amateurs.  The  audi- 
ence responded  quickly  to  the  situations  and 
the  dialogue;  there  were  brightened  spirits  and 
much  laughter,  easy,  quiet  enjoyment  and  ap- 
plause. The  second  part  was  a  series  of  songs, 
done  by  one  performer  after  another,  each  doing 
his  stunt  with  verve  and  the  comedy  of  the 
variety  stage;  there  was  a  full  dozen  of  these 
light-hearted  parts.  In  the  intermissions  the 
men  stayed  in  their  seats,  though  about  the 
doorway  there  would  be  a  little  movement  and 
changeful  regrouping,  but  it  was  an  audience 
that  sat  in  their  places  ready  for  more;  there 
was  no  smoking.  The  last  number  of  the  pro- 
gramme —  a  small,  pretty  double  sheet,  like 
note-paper,  done  by  some  copying  process  in 
pale  blue,  with  a  sword,  rifle,  and  cap  on  the 


FIGUIG  143 

ground  before  two  palms  lightly  sketched  in  the 
lower  corner  of  the  title  leaf  —  was  another 
one-act  play,  "Cher  Maitre,"  and  was  received 
with  a  spirit  that  seemed  only  to  have  been 
whetted  by  the  previous  amusement;  and  when 
it  was  over  the  evening  ended  in  a  round  of 
generous  applause  and  a  smiling  breaking  up  of 
the  company  after  their  three  hours'  enjoyment. 
It  was  pleasant  to  have  been  with  the  Legion 
on  such  a  night,  and  to  have  shared  in  its  little 
village  festa,  and  I  stood  by  the  doorway  and 
watched  the  men  go  by  as  they  passed  out,  till 
all  were  gone. 

It  was  midnight.  The  radiant  moon  poured 
down  that  marvellous  white  flood  on  the  hollow 
of  the  desert  where  the  little  town  lay  low  and 
gleaming,  very  silent.  But  I  could  not  rid  my 
mind  of  the  soldiers'  lives.  I  thought  of  the 
torrid  summer  heats  here  in  garrison,  of  the 
burning  marches  yonder  in  the  south,  of  the 
days  in  sterile  sands  that  make  the  sight  of 
palm  and  garden  a  thing  of  paradise  —  incred- 
ible fatigues,  mortal  exhaustion,  monotony. 
One  cannot  know  the  soldiers'  desert  life  with- 
out some  experience;  but  some  impression  of 
it  may  be  gained  from  soldiers'  books,  such  as 
one  that  is  a  favorite  companion  of  mine,  "Une 
Promenade  dans  le  Sahara,"  by  Charles  Lagarde, 


144    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

a  lieutenant  in  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  a 
thoughtful  book,  full  of  artistic  feeling,  and 
written  with  literary  grace,  the  memorial  of  a 
soldier  with  the  heart  of  a  poet,  who  served  in 
South  Algeria.  In  such  books  one  gets  the  en- 
vironment, but  not  the  life;  one  touch  with  the 
Legion  is  worth  them  all.  I  fell  to  sleep  for 
my  last  slumber  at  Beni-Ounif,  thinking  of  sol- 
diers' lives,  friendless  men  — 

"Somewhere  dead  far  in  the  waste  Soudan.'* 


It  was  a  brilliant  morning.  I  went  to  the 
edge  of  the  desert  and  looked  off  south  with  the 
wish  to  go  on  that  all  unknown  horizons  wake, 
but  which  the  desert  horizon  stirs,  I  think,  with 
more  longing  insistence,  with  a  greater  power 
of  the  vague,  than  any  other;  for  there  it  lies 
world-wide,  mysterious,  unpenetrated,  and  seems 
to  open  a  pathway  through  space  itself,  like  the 
sea.  All  true  travellers  know  this  feehng,  the 
nostalgia  for  the  "far  country"  that  they  will 
never  see;  it  is  an  emotion  that  is  like  a  passion 
—  mystical,  and  belongs  to  the  deep  soul.  The 
desert  horizon,  like  the  sea's,  at  every  moment 
breeds  this  spell.     But  as  I  turned  back,  with 


FIGUIG  145 

the  sense  of  the  chained  foot,  my  disappoint- 
ment was  tempered  by  the  knowledge  that  I 
was  to  companion  my  friend,  who  had  been  or- 
dered to  Tonkin;  and  I  had  timed  my  departure 
to  go  with  his  detachment  on  its  way  north. 
As  I  went  down  to  the  train  my  Arab  boy,  with 
the  infinite  hopefulness  of  such  attaches,  brought 
me  a  dead  wolf,  if  by  chance  I  would  like  it; 
but  I  could  not  add  it  to  my  baggage,  whereat 
he  was  sorrowful,  but  was  comforted.  The 
station  presented  a  lively  scene  —  many  sol- 
diers in  their  white  duck  trousers  and  red  caps; 
there  was  a  band;  the  air  was  filled  with  good- 
bys  and  laughing  salutations;  the  car  windows 
grew  lined  with  leaning  forms  and  intent  faces; 
the  music  struck  up,  high  and  gallant,  and  with 
the  last  cries  and  shouts  we  were  off  on  the  line. 
It  was  too  short  a  ride,  though  the  train 
climbed  slowly  up  the  incline,  while  the  desert 
grew  a  distant  outlook  and  was  shut  from  view 
as  we  made  into  the  winding  valleys;  and  we 
mounted  up  through  the  black  defiles,  the  deso- 
lation of  the  shivered  rock,  the  passes  of  the 
toothed  ranges,  the  blocking  cliffs  and  columnar 
heights  —  all  the  petrifaction  and  fantasy  of 
that  naked  and  severe  land;  but  I  was  less  sen- 
sible of  its  enmity  and  melancholy  than  when 
I  came  through  it  alone,  though  it  was  harsh 


146    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

and  wild,  a  terre  perdue.  My  friend  travelled 
with  his  comrades,  but  we  had  a  long  lunch  in 
the  train  before  Am-Sefra,  and  a  longer  dinner 
when  night  began  to  fall,  with  tales  and  talk. 
Tales  of  the  mutiny  of  the  batallion  d'Afrique 
—  Othello  tales  these,  fit  for  fearful  ears ;  tales 
of  night  surprises,  Arabs  crawling  by  inches  for 
hours  in  the  sands,  the  sentinels  killed  without 
a  sound,  the  first  alarm  bayonets  through  the 
tents,  and  then  the  rouse,  the  square,  the  vic- 
tory; tales  of  the  desert  madness,  the  cafard. 
Stirring  tales.  Talk,  too,  of  home  and  friends 
left  behind  us  in  the  world,  of  the  dead  and  the 
living,  and  of  what  might  yet  be  for  both  of  us. 
He  told  me  much  of  the  Legion,  for  that  inter- 
ested me;  but  he  never  complained,  and  if  he 
caught  some  unspoken  thought  on  my  face  from 
time  to  time,  "  C'est  le  metier,"  he  would  say,  and 
smile  my  sympathy  away.  He  was  a  youth 
after  my  own  heart;  but  the  night  fell  darker 
and  darker,  and  there  would  be  an  end.  At  the 
last  station  where  it  was  possible,  he  came  back 
to  me.     It  was  good-by. 


TOUGOURT 


IV 

TOUGOURT 


IT  was  a  cold  dawn  in  late  April  at  Biskra. 
The  carriage,  long  and  heavy,  with  three 
horses  abreast,  stood  at  the  door.  Ali,  a 
sturdy  Arab,  young  but  with  no  look  of  youth, 
wound  in  a  gorgeous  red  sash,  sat  on  the  box; 
and  as  I  settled  in  my  place,  Hamet,  the  guide, 
followed  me  gravely  and  sat  down  beside  me, 
and  at  a  word  from  him  we  were  briskly  off  on 
the  long,  uneventful  drive  to  Tougourt,  over  the 
desert  route  of  about  a  hundred  and  thirty  miles 
southward,  to  be  covered  in  two  days'  travel. 
We  were  soon  beside  the  sleepy  silence  of  the 
oasis,  and  passed  the  old  yellow  slope  that  was 
once  a  fortress  to  guard  it  on  the  edge  of  the 
sands;  we  dipped  along  by  little  fields  of  fresh 
green  barley  and  rose  on  the  steppe  of  the  bois, 
a  tangle  of  low  undergrowth,  scarcely  waist- 
high,  of  twisted  and  almost  leafless  shrub,  that 

clothes  the  desert  there  with  its  characteristic 

149 


150    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

dry,  rough,  tortured,  and  stunted  but  hardy 
vegetation.  A  few  Arabs  were  to  be  seen  in 
places  cutting  it  for  fire-wood.  Camels,  too,  far 
away  in  almost  any  direction,  loomed  up,  soli- 
tary and  ungainly  as  harbor-buoys  on  a  wind- 
less morning  tide.  On  all  sides  lay  the  sharp 
black  outlines  of  oasis  clumps  of  palm-trees,  dis- 
tinct, single,  solid,  each  a  distant  island,  with 
miles  to  cross  before  one  should  land  on  its  un- 
known shore;  and  behind  us  the  range  of  the 
Aures  seemed  to  block  out  the  world  with  the 
wild  beauty  of  its  precipices,  which  made  one 
cliff  of  all  the  north  as  if  to  shut  out  Europe. 
It  was  like  a  wall  of  the  world.  All  about  us 
was  the  desert;  everything  seemed  cold  and 
gray  and  distant,  lifeless,  in  the  pallor  of  the 
morning;  but  with  every  mile  the  whole  world 
brightened  and  warmed.  Desert  air  intoxicates 
me;  every  breath  of  it  is  wine,  not  so  much  to 
my  blood  or  my  nerves,  but  to  my  whole  being 
of  man;  and  long  before  we  reached  Bordj  Saada, 
the  first  halt,  I  was  keyed  to  the  day.  It  was 
a  glorious  day,  cloudless  and  blue,  and  drenched 
with  sunshine  and  radiance  and  warmth  pouring 
on  vast  spaces;  and  the  Bordj,  a  disused  military 
post,  a  sort  of  large  stockade  for  refuge  and  de- 
fence, standing  solitary  on  its  high  ridge,  was  an 
old  friend  and  a  place  of  memory  for  me;  there 


TOUGOURT  151 

once  I  had  turned  back,  and  now  I  was  going 
on.  There  was  excitement  in  the  moment,  in  the 
look  ahead ;  and  so  it  was  only  as  we  swept  round 
the  curve  down  into  the  valley  of  Oued  Djedi 
and  crossed  its  dry  channel  that  I  felt  myself 
embarked,  as  it  were,  on  my  first  true  desert 
voyage.  I  had  coasted  the  Sahara  for  a  thou- 
sand miles  here  and  there,  like  a  boy  in  a  boat; 
but  now  I  should  be  at  last  out  of  sight  of  land. 
We  were  quite  happy  voyagers,  the  three  of 
us.  Ali,  on  the  box,  sang  from  time  to  time 
some  cadenced  stave,  careless  as  a  bird,  in  a 
world  of  his  own;  indeed  the  drive  was  an  ad- 
venture to  him,  for,  as  I  afterward  found,  it  was 
his  first  going  to  Tougourt;  and  had  not  Hamet, 
almost  as  soon  as  we  started,  lifting  one  intent, 
burning  glance  straight  in  my  eyes  —  it  was  the 
first  time  I  had  really  seen  him,  as  a  person  — 
told  me  that  I  had  brought  him  good  luck,  for 
that  night  his  wife  had  borne  him  a  boy?  He 
was  content.  A  fine  figure,  too,  was  Hamet;  he 
answered,  as  no  other  guide  but  one  I  ever  had, 
to  the  imagination;  he  filled  my  dream  of  what 
ought  to  be.  A  mature  man,  rather  thick-set, 
with  a  skin  so  bronzed  that  in  the  shadow  it  was 
black,  with  the  head  of  a  desert  sheik,  noble, 
powerful;  when  he  moved  he  seemed  still  in  re- 
pose, so  sculptural  were  all  the  lines  of  his  figure. 


152    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

such  dignity  was  in  every  chance  attitude;  he 
seemed  more  Hke  some  distinguished  aid  to  at- 
tend me  than  a  guide.  His  white  burnoose  fell 
in  large  folds,  and  as  he  threw  it  partly  over  me 
in  the  first  cool  hours,  he  disclosed  some  light, 
white  underdress  over  whose  bosom  hung  low 
a  great  gold  chain  with  beads  under;  a  revolver 
swung  in  a  leather  case,  rather  tightly  drawn 
below  his  right  breast  with  a  strap  over  the 
shoulder;  white  stockings  and  slippers  completed 
his  garb.  We  talked  of  trifles,  and  the  conver- 
sation was  charming,  not  too  fluent  —  talk  of  the 
road;  but  what  I  remember  is  my  pleasure  in 
finding  again  what  often  seems  to  me  that  lost 
grace  of  a  fine  natural  demeanor  in  men.  It  is 
of  less  consequence  to  me  what  a  man  says  than 
is  his  manner  of  saying  it,  and  speech  is  not  of 
the  lips  only,  but  of  the  whole  man;  and,  in  my 
experience,  it  is  the  unlearned  who  are  also  un- 
spoiled, that,  all  in  all,  say  things  best.  And 
ever  as  we  talked  or  were  silent  the  horses  went 
on,  the  brilliant  bare  line  of  the  Aures  sank 
slowly  down,  and  round  us  was  the  waste  of  rock 
with  its  fitful  tangle  of  tamarack  and  drin,  the 
sea  of  sand  with  its  ridged  breadths,  the  near  or 
distant  horizon  lines  as  the  track  rose  and  fell; 
and  with  the  hours  the  panorama  of  the  road 
began  to  disclose  itself. 


TOUGOURT  153 

The  road  was  really  a  broad,  camel-trodden 
route  on  which  the  carriageway,  winding  about, 
found  going  as  best  it  could;  the  railway  that 
will  some  time  be  had  been  surveyed  along  it, 
and  the  telegraph-poles  that  already  bore  the 
wire  far  beyond  Tougourt  into  the  desert  were 
seldom  far  away.  On  the  earlier  part  of  the 
journey  the  going  was  excellent  in  that  dry  sea- 
son. It  was  not  a  lonely  road,  though  for  long 
stretches  it  was  solitary.  Over  the  brink  of 
a  rise  suddenly  would  spring  up  a  half-dozen 
human  figures,  sharp  outlines  on  the  blue  sky, 
and  a  flock  would  come  tumbling  after  as  if 
clotted  about  their  feet,  and  there  might  be  a 
donkey  or  two;  it  was  a  Bedouin  family  on  its 
northern  migration  to  the  summer  pasturage. 
What  an  isolated  fragment  of  human  life  it 
seemed,  flotsam  tossing  about  with  the  seasons, 
as  little  related  to  anything  neighborly  as  sea- 
weed, yet  spawning  century  after  century,  living 
on,  with  the  milk  of  goats,  in  such  a  waste;  and 
how  infinitely  fresh  was  the  simple  scene!  one 
or  two  men,  a  boy,  women,  children,  and  goats 
tramping  in  the  desert  toward  water  and  green 
food,  a  type  of  humanity  for  ages  —  and  it  was 
such  a  wretched  subsistence!  But  what  a  bodily 
vigor,  what  a  look  of  independence,  what  a  sense 
of  liberty  there  was  there,  too!     Now  it  would 


154    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

be  two  or  three  camels  with  the  canopy  In  which 
women  ride,  with  flocks,  too,  and  more  men  and 
boys,  more  warmly  clad,  with  more  color  and 
importance  —  some  wealthier  head  man  with  his 
family  going  the  same  northward  journey.  Or, 
as  the  carriage  crested  some  ridge,  we  would  see 
miles  ahead  a  long  line  creeping  on  toward  us  — 
a  trade  caravan;  and  after  a  while  it  would  pass, 
the  camels  pouting  in  high  air,  under  the  loads 
of  balanced  boxes  or  bales  laid  across  them,  lum- 
bering dumbly  along  in  the  great  silence,  like 
convicts,  as  it  always  seems  to  me,  from  another 
sphere  of  existence. 

Many  creatures  give  me  vividly  this  impres- 
sion of  having  haplessly  intruded  into  a  state  of 
being  not  meant  for  them.  The  turtles  in  the 
swamps  of  my  boyhood,  leaning  their  sly  and 
protruded  heads  out  of  their  impossible  shells, 
the  fish  that  have  great  staring  eyes  in  aqua- 
riums, frogs  and  toads  and  all  centipedal  sea 
creatures,  are  to  me  foreigners  to  life,  strays, 
misbirths,  "moving  about  in  worlds  not  real- 
ized," and  all  grotesque  forms  of  life  —  even 
human  deformity  when  it  becomes  grotesque  — 
wake  in  me  something  between  amusement  and 
pity  that  they  should  be  at  all.  I  feel  like  say- 
ing as  a  guide,  wishing  to  correct  a  friend  of  mine, 
once  said:  "Monsieur,  you  are  a  mistake."    But 


TOUGOURT  155 

of  all  such  creatures,  the  camel  fills  me  with 
the  most  profound  and  incurable  despair.  He  is 
the  most  homeless-looking  of  all  creatures.  He 
has  been  the  companion  and  helpmate  of  man 
from  the  dawn  of  human  life,  and  our  debt 
to  him  through  uncounted  ages  and  in  places 
where  the  human  lot  has  been  most  penurious 
and  desperate  is  untold ;  but  man  has  never  been 
able  to  enlighten  him;  he  looks,  on  all  occasions 
and  under  all  circumstances,  hopelessly  bored 
with  existence,  unutterably  sick  of  humanity. 
There  is  a  suicidal  mood  in  animal  life,  and  at 
times  one  can  see  glimpses  and  intimations  of 
it  surely  in  the  eyes  of  animals;  the  camel  em- 
bodies it,  like  a  stare.  I  wish  they  were  all  dead; 
and  when  I  see  their  bones  in  the  sand,  as  I  often 
do,  I  am  glad  that  they  are  gone  and  have  left 
the  ribs  of  their  tabernacle  of  life  behind  them 
by  the  wayside.  Every  desert  traveller  writes 
a  little  essay  on  the  camel.  This  is  mine.  I  will 
not  modify  it  even  for  the  sake  of  the  meharis 
that  come  down  the  route,  overtaking  us  from 
Biskra;  they  are  the  racers  that  have  just  com- 
peted in  the  yearly  trial  of  speed  from  Tougourt 
—  aristocrats  of  the  species;  they  have  a  clear 
gray  tone  and  slender  delicacies  of  flank  and 
skin;  all  day  they  will  be  speeding  ahead  and 
dropping  behind  us;  the  desert  is  their  cloth  of 


156    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

gold  and  they  its  chivalry  —  splendid  beasts  they 
are,  as  native  to  this  blown  empire  of  the  sand 
and  the  sun  and  the  free  air  as  a  bird  to  the  sky 
—  and  they  lift  their  blunt  noses  over  it  with 
unconquerable  contempt.  It  is  amazing  how 
the  creature,  supercilious  or  abject,  refuses  to 
be  comforted.  There  is  no  link  between  him 
and  man.  If  you  seek  a  type  for  the  irrecon- 
cilable, find  it  in  the  camel. 

It  is  said  that  one  meets  his  enemy  in  every 
place,  and  every  traveller  experiences  these  sur- 
prising encounters  that  prove  the  smallness  of 
the  world;  but  I  better  the  proverb,  for  it  is  a 
friend  I  meet  in  the  most  solitary  places.  On  the 
loneliest  road  of  Greece  a  passing  traveller 
called  out  my  name;  in  the  high  passes  of  Al- 
giers I  came  face  to  face  with  a  schoolmate; 
and,  however  repeated,  the  experience  never 
loses  its  surprise.  Surely  I  had  seen  that  gaunt 
figure  pressing  up  on  a  stout  mule  from  the  head 
of  the  fresh  trade  caravan  that  was  just  ap- 
proaching; that  face,  like  a  bird  of  prey,  that 
predatory  nose  before  the  high  forehead  and 
bold  eyes  —  yes,  it  was  Yussef,  my  guide  of 
years  ago,  with  welcome  all  over  his  counte- 
nance and  quick  salutations  to  his  old  compan- 
ion. He  was  a  caravan  man  now,  for  the  nonce, 
and  coming  up  from  the  Souf.     How  natural  it 


TOUGOURT  157 

was  to  meet  on  the  desert,  with  the  brief  words 
that  resumed  the  years  and  aboHshed  the  time 
that  had  sped  away  and  renewed  the  eternal 
now.  But  we  must  follow  the  meharis,  slim 
forms  on  the  horizon  ahead,  and  we  went  on  to 
overtake  them  at  Ain  Chegga,  a  mere  stopping 
place,  where  there  was  on  one  side  of  the  way 
a  sort  of  desert  farm,  and  a  relay  of  horses  wait- 
ing for  us,  and  on  the  other  a  small,  lonesome 
building  by  itself  where  we  could  lunch  from 
our  own  stores.  The  sun  was  hot  now  and  the 
shade  and  rest  grateful;  but  we  had  a  long  way 
to  go.  With  thoughtless  generosity  we  gave 
our  fragments  of  bread  to  some  adjacent  boys, 
and  started  off  rapidly  with  the  fresh  horses  on 
the  great  plain. 

The  road  was  lonelier  than  in  the  morning 
hours;  the  solitude  began  to  make  itseK  felt,  the 
silence  of  the  heat,  the  encompassment  of  the 
rolling  distances,  the  splendor  of  the  sky.  There 
was  hardly  any  life  except  the  occasional  shrub, 
the  drin.  I  saw  a  falcon  once,  and  once  a  raven; 
but  we  were  alone,  as  if  on  the  sea.  Then  the 
Sahara  began  to  give  up  its  bliss  —  the  unspeak- 
able thing  —  the  inner  calm,  the  sense  of  repose, 
of  relief,  the  feeling  of  separation  from  life,  the 
faUing  away  of  the  burden,  the  freedom  from  it 
all  in  the  freedom  of  those  blue  and  silent  dis- 


158    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

tances  over  sandy  and  rock-paved  tracts,  full  of 
the  sun.  How  quiet  it  was,  how  large,  and  what 
a  sense  of  effortless  elemental  power  —  of  nature 
in  her  pure  and  lifeless  being!  It  is  easy  to 
think  on  the  desert,  thought  is  there  so  near  to 
fact  —  a  still  fresh  imprint  in  consciousness ; 
thought  and  being  are  hardly  separate  there; 
and  there  nature  seems  to  me  more  truly  felt 
in  her  naked  essence,  lifeless,  for  life  to  her  is  but 
an  incident,  a  detail,  uncared  for,  unessential. 
She  does  but  incline  her  poles  and  it  is  gone. 
Taken  in  the  millennial  aeons  of  her  existence,  it 
is  a  lifeless  universe  that  is,  and  on  the  desert  it 
seems  so.  This  is  the  spectacle  of  power  where 
man  is  not — like  the  sea,  like  the  vault  of  heaven, 
likje  all  that  is  infinite.  What  a  repose  it  is  to 
behold  it,  to  feel  it,  to  know  it  —  this  elimina- 
tion, not  only  of  humanity,  but  of  life,  from 
things !  The  desert  —  it  is  the  truth.  How 
golden  is  the  sunlight,  how  majestic  the  immo- 
bile earth,  how  glorious  the  reach  of  it  —  this 
infinite !  And  one  falls  asleep  in  it,  cradled  and 
fascinated  and  careless,  flooded  slowly  by  that 
peace  which  pours  in  upon  the  spirit  to  lull  and 
strengthen  and  quiet  it,  and  to  revive  it  changed 
and  more  in  nature's  image,  purged  —  so  it 
seems  —  of  its  too  human  past. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.     Hamet  roused 


TOUGOURT  159 

himself  as  we  passed  down  to  Oued  Itel  and 
crossed  its  dry  bed,  and  Ali  ceased  from  his  va- 
grant music  as  the  horses  breasted  the  slope 
beyond.  We  came  out  on  a  high  ridge.  It  was 
a  magnificent  view.  The  long  valley  of  the 
great  chotts  lay  below  us  transversely,  like  a  vast 
river  bottom;  far  off  to  the  northeast  glittered, 
pale  and  white,  Chott  Melrir,  like  a  sea  of  salt, 
and  before  us  Chott  Merouan  stretched  across 
like  a  floor,  streaked  with  blotches  of  saltpetre 
and  dark  stains  of  soil.  The  scene  made  the 
impression  on  me  of  immense  flats  at  a  dead 
low  tide,  reaching  on  the  left  into  distances 
without  a  sea.  It  was  a  scene  of  desolation,  of 
unspeakable  barrenness,  of  the  waste  world;  its 
dull,  w^hite  lights  were  infinitely  fantastic  on  the 
grays  and  the  blacks,  and  the  lights  in  the  sky 
were  cold;  the  solitude  of  it  was  complete;  but 
its  great  extent,  its  emptiness,  its  enclosing  walls 
of  shadow  in  the  falling  day  crinkling  the  whole 
upper  plane  of  the  endless  landscape  round  its 
blanching  hollows  and  horizontal  vistas  below, 
stamped  it  indeHbly  on  my  eyes.  I  was  not 
prepared  for  it;  it  was  an  enlargement,  a  new 
aspect  of  the  world.  This  was  the  southwestern 
end  of  the  chain  of  chotts,  or  salt  wastes,  that 
lie  mostly  below  sea-level  and  are  the  dried-up 
bed  of  the  ancient  inland  arm  of  the  sea  that 


160    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

washed  this  valley  in  some  distant  age;  they 
stretch  northeasterly  and  touch  the  Mediter- 
ranean near  Gabes  and  the  suggestion  is  con- 
stantly made  that  the  sea  be  let  into  them  again 
by  a  canal,  thus  flooding  and  transforming  this 
part  of  the  Sahara.  It  may  some  time  be  done; 
but  there  is  some  doubt  about  the  lay  of  the 
levels  and  whether  such  an  engineering  feat 
would  not  result  merely  in  stagnant  waters. 
Meanwhile  it  is  a  vast  barren  basin,  saline,  and 
in  the  wet  season  dangerous  with  quicksands, 
unsafe  ground,  a  morass  of  death  for  man  and 
beast.  The  ridge  where  I  stood  commanded  a 
long  view  of  this  sterile  and  melancholy  waste; 
but  I  did  not  feel  it  to  be  sad;  I  only  felt  it  to  be; 
it  had  such  grandeur. 

We  went  down  by  a  rough  descent  and  began 
the  crossing  of  the  chott  before  us,  Merouan, 
on  its  westerly  edge.  The  road  ran  on  flat 
ground,  often  wet  and  thick  with  a  coating  of 
black  mud,  and  there  was  the  smell  of  saltpetre 
in  the  air;  the  view  on  either  side  was  merely 
desolate,  night  was  falling,  it  began  to  be  chill; 
and  by  the  time  we  reached  the  farther  side  the 
stars  came  out.  It  was  a  darkened  scene  when 
we  rode  into  the  first  oasis  of  young  palms,  with- 
out inhabitants,  which  belonged  to  some  French 
company.     It  was  full  night  when  we  emerged 


TOUGOURT  161 

again  on  the  sands;  a  splendor  of  stars  was  over 
us  and  utter  solitude  around;  it  was  long  since 
we  had  seen  any  one,  and  as  the  second  oasis 
came  into  view  it  looked  like  a  low  black  island 
cliff  on  the  sea,  and  as  deserted.  We  drove  into 
its  shadows  by  a  broad  road  like  an  avenue, 
with  the  motionless  palms  thick  on  either  side, 
as  in  a  park;  there  was  no  sign  or  sound  of  life. 
It  was  like  night  in  a  forest,  heavy  with  darkness 
and  silence,  except  where  the  stars  made  a 
track  above  and  our  lights  threw  a  pale  gleam 
about.  This  oasis,  which  was  large,  also  seemed 
uninhabited;  and  we  passed  through  it  on  the 
straight  road  which  was  cut  by  other  crossing 
roads,  and  came  out  on  the  desert  by  the  tele- 
graph-poles. The  going  was  through  heavy 
sand,  which  after  a  mile  or  two  was  heavier; 
our  hubs  were  now  in  drifts  of  it.  Hamet  took 
the  lights  and  explored  to  find  tracks  of  wheels, 
and  the  horses  drew  us  with  difficulty  into  what 
seemed  a  route;  in  ten  minutes  it  was  imprac- 
ticable. We  crossed  with  much  bumping  and 
careening  to  the  other  side  of  the  telegraph-poles, 
and  that  was  no  better;  forward  and  back  and 
sidelong,  with  much  inspection  of  the  ground, 
we  plied  the  search;    we  were  off  the  route. 

We  drove  back  to  the  oasis  thinking  we  had 
missed  the  right  way  out,  and  on  its  edge  turned 


162    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

at  right  angles  down  a  good  road;  at  the  corner 
we  found  ourselves  in  the  dunes  —  there  was  no 
semblance  of  a  route.  We  returned  to  the  cen- 
tre of  the  silent  palm  grove,  where  there  were 
branching  ways,  and  taking  another  track  were 
blocked  by  a  ditch,  and  avoiding  that,  coasting 
another  and  ruder  side  of  the  grove,  again  at 
the  upper  corner  of  the  oasis  struck  the  impass- 
able; so  we  went  back  to  our  starting-place. 
Hamet  took  the  lanterns  and  gathered  up  his 
revolver  and  set  out  apparently  to  find  the  guard- 
ian, if  there  was  one.  It  was  then  Ali  told  me 
he  had  never  been  to  Tougourt  before;  Hamet 
was  so  experienced  a  guide  that  it  was  thought 
a  good  opportunity  to  break  in  a  new  driver. 
These  French  oases  across  the  old  route,  with 
their  new  roads,  were  confusing;  and  Hamet 
had  not  been  down  to  Tougourt  of  late.  The 
silence  of  the  grove  was  great,  not  wholly  un- 
broken now:  there  were  animal  cries,  insect 
buzzings,  hootings,  noises  of  a  wood,  and  every 
sound  was  intensified  in  the  deep  quiet,  the 
strange  surroundings.  It  was  very  late.  We 
had  spent  hours  in  our  slow  progress  wandering 
about  in  the  sands  and  the  grove  in  the  uncer- 
tain light.  Hamet  was  gone  quite  a  long  time, 
but  at  last  we  saw  his  waving  lantern  in  the  wide 
dark  avenue  and  drove  toward  him.     He  got 


TOUGOURT  163 

in,  said  something  to  Ali,  and  off  we  went  on 
our  original  track,  but  turned  sharply  to  the 
right  before  issuing  from  the  wood,  down  a 
broad  way;  we  were  soon  skirting  the  western 
edge  of  the  oasis;  branches  brushed  the  car- 
riage; the  ruts  grew  deep,  the  track  grew  nar- 
row, the  carriage  careened;  we  got  out,  the 
wheels  half  in  the  ditch,  horses  backing.  Hamet 
threw  up  his  hands.  It  was  midnight.  We 
would  camp  where  we  were.  The  route  was  lost, 
whatever  might  be  our  state;  and  I  did  not 
wonder,  for  as  nearly  as  I  could  judge  we  were 
then  heading  north  by  east,  if  I  knew  the  pole- 
star.  We  were  on  the  only  corner  of  the  oasis 
we  had  not  hitherto  visited;  the  spot  had  one 
recommendation  for  a  camp  —  it  was  a  very 
out-of-the-way  place.  The  horses  were  taken 
out,  and  each  of  us  disposed  himseK  for  the 
night  according  to  his  fancy.  It  was  intensely 
cold,  and  I  rolled  myself  in  my  rugs  and  sweaters 
and  curled  up  on  the  carriage  seat  and  at  once 
fell  fast  asleep. 

An  hour  later  I  awoke,  and  unwinding  myself 
got  out.  It  was  night  on  the  desert.  Ali  was 
asleep  on  the  box,  upright,  with  his  chin  against 
his  breast,  Hamet  lay  in  his  burnoose  in  the 
sand  some  little  distance  away.  The  horses 
stood  in  some  low  brush  near  the  ditch.     The 


164    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

palm  grove,  impenetrably  black,  stood  behind, 
edging  the  long,  low  line  of  the  sky;  there  was 
a  chorus  of  frogs  monotonously  chanting;  and 
before  me  to  the  west  was  the  vague  of  the  sands, 
with  indistinguishable  lines  and  obscure  hillocks, 
overlaid  with  darkness.  Only  the  sky  gave  dis- 
tance to  the  silent  solitude  —  such  a  sky  as  one 
does  not  see  elsewhere,  magnificent  with  multi- 
tudes of  stars,  bright  and  lucid,  or  fine  and  in- 
numerable, melting  into  nebulous  clouds  and 
milky  tracts,  sparkling  and  brilliant  in  that 
keen,  clear,  cloudless  cold,  ail  the  horizon  round. 
I  was  alone,  and  I  was  glad.  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful moment  and  scene.  Hamet  stirred  in  his 
place,  and  I  went  back  to  my  post  and  slept 
soundly  and  well. 


II 


I  WOKE  at  the  first  streak  of  dawn.  Two 
beautiful  morning  stars  still  hung,  large  and 
liquid,  in  the  fading  night,  but  the  growing 
pallor  of  daybreak  already  disclosed  the  wild 
and  desolate  spot  where  we  had  fortunately 
stopped.  Drifts  of  trackless  sand  stretched  in- 
terminably before  us;  the  young  palms  showed 
low  and  forlorn  in  the  gray  air;  the  scanty 
brush  by  the  ditch  was  starved  and  miserable; 


TOUGOURT  165 

everything  had  a  meagre,  chill,  abandoned  look. 
As  soon  as  it  was  light  we  reversed  our  course, 
and  re-entering  the  oasis  hailed  a  well-hidden 
group  of  buildings  with  a  koubba  that  Hamet 
seemed  to  have  discovered  the  night  before.  An 
old  Arab  gave  us  our  bearings.  We  were  seven- 
teen kilometres  short  of  Mraier,  the  oasis  which 
we  should  have  reached;  and  now,  making  the 
right  turn-off,  we  saw  in  another  direction  over 
the  sands  the  black  line  of  palms  toward  which 
we  had  gone  astray.  We  soon  covered  the  dis- 
tance to  Mraier,  which  was  a  large  oasis  with 
a  considerable  village  and  a  caravanserai  whose 
gates  were  crowded  with  camels;  here  we  got  a 
very  welcome  breakfast,  but  we  did  not  linger, 
and  were  quickly  out  again  on  the  desert  on  the 
long  day's  ride  before  us. 

Since  we  passed  the  chott  we  were  in  the 
valley  of  Oued  Rir,  along  which  is  strewn  a 
chain  of  oases  like  a  necklace  as  far  as  to  Tou- 
gourt  and  beyond.  We  were  really  on  the  crust 
of  what  has  been  well  called  a  subterranean 
Nile,  formed  by  the  converging  flow  of  two 
Saharan  rivers,  Oued  Igharghar  and  Oued  Mya, 
whose  underground  bed  is  pierced  by  wells 
and  the  waters  gathered  and  distributed  to  feed 
the  oases.  There  are  now  forty-six  of  these 
palm  gardens  that  lie  at  a  distance  of  a  few 


166    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

miles,  one  from  another,  spotting  the  arid  sands 
with  their  black-green  isles  of  solid  verdure, 
making  a  fantastic  and  beautiful  landscape  of 
the  rolling  plain  of  moving  sands,  with  many- 
heights  and  depressions,  stretching  with  desert 
breadth  on  and  on  under  the  uninterrupted 
blue  of  the  glowing  sky.  The  district  has  long 
been  a  little  realm  by  itself,  sustaining  with 
much  toil  the  meagre  life  of  its  people  and  peri- 
odically invaded  and  subdued  by  the  great  pass- 
ing kingdoms  of  the  north.  Its  prosperity,  how- 
ever, really  dates  from  the  French  occupation. 
At  that  time  the  oases  were  dying  out  under  the 
invasion  of  the  unresting  sands  that  slowly  were 
burying  them  up.  The  French  almost  at  once 
with  their  superior  skill  sank  artesian  wells, 
and  the  new  flood  of  water  brought  immediate 
change.  The  number  of  the  inhabitants  has 
doubled;  the  product  of  dates,  which  are  of  the 
best  quality,  has  increased  many -fold ;  and  new 
oases  of  great  extent  and  value  have  been 
planted  by  French  companies.  This  is  one  of 
the  great  works  of  public  beneficence  accom- 
plished by  France  for  the  native  population; 
and  evidence  of  prosperity  was  to  be  seen  on 
every  hand  all  the  way. 

The  route  for  the  most  part  was  sandy  with 
occasional  stretches  of  rock,  often  a  beautifully 


TOUGOURT  167 

colored  quartz,  whose  brilliant  and  strange  veins 
harmonized  well  with  the  deep-toned  landscape; 
but  the  eye  wandered  off  to  the  horizon  and 
drifts  of  sand,  as  the  heavens  began  to  fill  with 
light  and  the  spaces  grew  brilliant;  in  that  va- 
cancy and  breadth  every  detail  grew  strangely 
important  and  interesting;  a  single  palm,  a  far 
glimmer  of  salt,  a  herd  of  goats  would  hold  the 
eye,  and,  as  the  day  grew  on,  the  deceptive  at- 
mosphere gave  a  fresh  touch  of  the  fantastic, 
playing  with  the  lines  and  forms  of  objects.  We 
passed  from  Mraier,  leaving  these  island  oases 
on  the  horizon  as  the  route  threaded  its  way 
more  or  less  remote  from  them,  and  at  intervals 
we  would  touch  one  —  a  palm  grove  on  the  right, 
and  the  village  by  itself  on  higher  dry  ground 
to  the  left.  Two  of  these  villages,  of  consider- 
able size,  were  entirely  new,  having  been  built 
within  two  years;  they  were  constructed  of  the 
sun-dried  mud  commonly  used,  but  they  did 
not  have  the  dilapidated  look  of  the  ksar;  they 
were  clean  and  fresh,  a  new  home  for  the  people 
who  had  abandoned  the  old,  unhealthy  site  that 
they  had  formerly  occupied,  and  had  made  a 
new  town  for  themselves;  and  Hamet,  who  told 
me  this,  said  other  villages  had  done  the  same, 
and  he  seemed  proud  of  their  enterprise  and 
prosperity. 


168    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

We  went  on  now  through  heavy  sand  at  times 

—  and  always  there  was  the  broad  prospect,  the 
gray  and  brown  ribbed  distance,  the  blue  glow 

—  a  universal  light,  a  boundless  freedom,  the 
desert  solitude  of  the  dry,  soft  air.  ^'C'est  le 
vrai  Sahara,''  said  Hamet,  content.  For  my- 
self I  could  not  free  my  senses  of  the  previous 
day's  impression  of  the  great  chotts  as  of  the 
shore  of  a  world,  and  the  landscape  continued 
to  have  a  prevailing  marine  character.  I  do 
not  mean  that  the  desert  was  like  the  ocean; 
it  was  not.  But  the  outlooks,  the  levels,  the 
sand-colored  and  blue-bathed  spaces  were  like 
scenes  by  the  seashore;  only  there  was  no  sea 
there.  The  alBQluence  of  light,  the  shadowless 
brilliancy,  the  silences,  the  absence  of  humanity 
and  human  things  as  again  and  again  they 
dropped  from  us  and  ceased  to  be,  were  ocean 
traits ;  but  there  was  no  sea  —  only  the  wind 
sculpture  of  the  sands,  beautifully  mottled  and 
printed,  and  delicately  modulated  by  the  wind's 
breath,  only  a  blue  distance,  an  island  horizon. 
Even  the  birds  —  there  were  many  larks  to-day 

—  seemed  sea-birds,  so  lonesomely  flying.  But 
there  was  never  any  sea.  It  was  the  kingdom 
of  the  sands. 

Here,  not  far  from  the  route,  I  saw  what  was 
meant  by  the  invasion  of  the  sand.     The  oasis 


TOUGOURT  169 

on  its  farther  side  toward  the  desert  was  half 
blown  over  with  the  white  drifts  of  it  that  made 
in  like  a  tide;  the  trunks  of  the  palms  were  buried 
to  a  third  of  their  height  in  it;  the  whole  garden 
was  bedded  with  it,  and  as  we  drew  away  from 
the  place,  looking  back,  the  little  oasis  with  its 
bare  palm  stems  resembled  a  wreck  driving  in 
the  sea  of  sands.  Elsewhere  I  saw  the  bar- 
riers, fences  of  palm  leaves  and  fagots,  raised 
against  the  encroaching  dunes,  where  the  sand 
was  packed  against  them  like  high  snow-drifts. 
The  sand  grew  heavier  now,  and  as  we  came  to 
Ourlana,  about  which  palmerais  lay  clustering 
in  all  directions,  the  horses  could  hardly  drag 
through  the  deep,  loose  mass  up  to  the  low  build- 
ing and  enclosure  where  was  our  noon  stopping 
place.  The  resources  of  the  house  were  scanty: 
only  an  omelet,  but  an  excellent  one,  and  coffee; 
bread,  too,  and  I  had  wine.  The  family,  a  small 
one  with  boy  and  girl,  whom  chocolate  soon  won 
to  my  side,  was  pleasant,  and  there  was  a  wel- 
come feeling  of  human  society  about  the  inci- 
dent; but  as  I  lit  a  cigarette  and  watched  the 
fresh  horses  put  in  —  for  here  we  found  our 
second  relay  that  had  been  sent  ahead  some  daj^s 
before  —  I  saw  that,  if  the  population  seemed 
scanty,  it  was  not  for  any  lack  of  numbers.  A 
short  distance  beyond  our  enclosure,  and  on  a 


170    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

line  with  it,  in  the  same  bare  sandy  waste, 
stood  another  long  building  with  a  great  dome, 
evidently  a  government  structure,  and  at  right 
angles  to  it  before  the  door  was  forming  a  long 
line  of  young  children;  it  was  the  village  school 
—  these  were  the  native  boys  marching  in  to 
the  afternoon  session,  for  all  the  w^orld  like  an 
American  school  at  home.  I  had  not  expected 
to  see  that  on  the  Sahara.  I  photographed  it  at 
once  —  a  striking  token  of  modern  civilization; 
and  I  saw  no  happier  sight  than  those  playful 
little  Arabs  going  to  school. 

We  dipped  ahead  into  the  oasis  by  the  long 
lines  of  palms  lifting  their  bare  stems  far  over- 
head and  fretting  the  sky  with  their  decorative 
border  of  tufts.  Here  and  there  were  fruit  trees, 
and  occasionally  vegetables  beneath,  but  as  a 
rule  there  were  only  the  palms  rising  from  bare 
earth,  cut  by  ditches  in  which  flowed  the  water; 
there  was  no  orchard  or  garden  character  to  the 
soil,  only  a  barren  underground,  but  all  above 
was  forest  silence  and  the  beauty  of  tall  trees. 
It  was  spring,  and  the  trees  had  begun  to  put  out 
their  great  spikes  and  plumes  of  white  blossoms 
in  places,  and  the  air  was  warm  and  soft.  A 
palm  fascinates  me  with  the  beauty  of  its  formal 
lines;  where  two  or  three  are  gathered  together 
they  make  a  picture;  a  single  one  in  the  distance 


TOUGOURT  171 

gives  composition  to  a  whole  landscape.  This 
was,  notwithstanding  the  interludes  of  the  oases, 
a  continuously  desert  ride,  and  I  remember  it 
mostly  for  its  beauty  of  color  and  line,  and  a 
strange  intensity  and  aloofness  of  the  beauty; 
there  was  nothing  human  in  it.  It  seemed  to  live 
by  its  own  glow  in  a  world  that  had  never  known 
man;  the  scene  of  some  other  planet  where  he 
had  never  been.  There  was,  too,  over  all  the 
monotony  and  immobility  of  things,  a  film  of 
changefulness,  a  waver  of  surface,  a  shifting  of 
lights  and  planes;  it  was  full  of  the  fascination 
of  horizons,  the  elusiveness  of  far  objects,  and 
the  feeling  of  endlessness  in  it,  like  the  sky,  was  a 
deep  chord  never  lost.  It  was  beyond  Ourlana 
that  I  noticed  to  the  southwest,  a  mile  or  two 
aw^ay,  three  or  four  detached  palms  by  a  lake; 
their  tall  stems  leaned  through  the  transparent 
air  above  a  low  bank  over  a  liquid,  mirror-like 
belt  of  quiet  water,  a  perfect  oriental  scene. 
It  was  my  first  mirage;  and  two  or  three  times 
more  I  saw  it  that  afternoon  —  the  perfect  sym- 
bol of  all  the  illusion  of  life.  How  beautiful  it 
was,  how  was  its  beauty  enhanced  framed  there 
in  the  waste  world,  how  after  a  while  it  melted 
away ! 

Oasis   after   oasis   dropped   from   us   on   the 
left  and  the  right,  and  in  the  late  afternoon  we 


172    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

were  climbing  a  sharp  rise  through  the  deepest 
sand  we  had  yet  encountered,  so  that  we  all 
got  out  and  walked  to  relieve  the  horses,  and 
ourselves  toiled  up  the  slope;  and  soon  from 
the  ridge  we  saw  a  broad  panorama  like  that 
of  the  day  before;  but  instead  of  that  salt  deso- 
lation, here  the  eye  surveyed  an  endless  lowland 
through  which  ahead  ran  a  long,  dark  cluster 
of  oases,  one  beyond  another,  like  an  archi- 
pelago; and  Hamet,  pointing  to  one  far  beyond 
all,  on  the  very  edge  of  the  horizon,  said:  "Tou- 
gourt."  We  descended  to  the  valley,  passing 
a  lonely  old  gray  mosque,  or  koubba,  of  some 
desert  saint  by  the  way  —  very  solemn  and  im- 
pressive it  was  in  the  failing  light,  far  from  men ; 
and  we  rolled  on  for  miles  over  land  like  a 
floor,  as  on  a  Western  prairie;  and  the  stars 
came  out;  and  at  intervals  a  dark  grove  went 
by;  and  we  were  again  in  the  sands;  and  an- 
other grove  loomed  up  with  its  look  of  a  black 
low  island,  and  we  passed  on  beside  it.  I 
thought  each,  as  it  came  in  view,  was  our  goal, 
but  we  kept  steadily  on.  It  was  nigh  ten 
o'clock  when  we  saw,  some  miles  away,  the  two 
great  lights,  like  low  harbor  lights,  that  are  the 
lights  of  the  gate  of  Tougourt.  Ali  was  per- 
ceptibly relieved  when  we  made  sure  of  them; 
for  they  were  unmistakable  at  last. 


TOUGOURT  173 

Then,  in  that  last  half-hour,  I  witnessed  a 
strange  phenomenon.  The  whole  sky  was  pow- 
dered with  stars;  I  had  never  seen  such  a 
myriad  glimmer  and  glow,  thickening,  filling 
the  heavenly  spaces,  innumerable;  and  all  at 
once  they  seemed  to  interlink,  great  and  small, 
with  rays  passing  between  them,  and  while  they 
shone  in  their  places,  infinite  in  multitude,  light 
fell  from  them  in  long  lines,  like  falling  rain, 
down  the  whole  concave  of  night  from  the 
zenith  to  the  horizon  on  every  side.  It  was  a 
Niagara  of  stars.  The  celestial  dome  without 
a  break  was  sheeted  with  the  starry  rain,  pour- 
ing down  the  hollow  sphere  of  darkness,  from 
the  apex  to  the  desert  rims.  No  words  can 
describe  that  sight,  as  a  mere  vision;  still  less 
can  they  tell  its  mystical  effect  at  the  moment. 
It  was  like  beholding  a  miracle.  And  it  was 
not  momentary;  for  half  an  hour,  as  we  drove 
over  the  dark  level,  obscure,  silent,  lonely,  I 
was  arched  in  and  shadowed  by  that  ceaseless, 
starry  rain  on  all  sides  round;  and  as  we  passed 
the  great  twin  lights  of  the  gates,  and  entered 
Tougourt,  and  drew  up  in  the  dim  and  soli- 
tary square,  it  was  still  falling. 


174    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


III 


I  EMERGED  the  next  morning  from  the  ar- 
caded  entrance  of  the  hotel,  which  was  one  of 
a  continuous  Hne  of  low  buildings  making  the 
business  side  of  the  public  square,  and  glancing 
up  I  saw  a  great  dog  looking  down  on  me  from 
the  flat  roof.  There  was  little  other  sign  of 
life.  The  square  was  a  large,  irregular  space 
which  seemed  the  more  extensive  owing  to  the 
low  level  of  the  adjoining  buildings  over  which 
rose  the  massive  tower  of  the  kasbah  close  at 
hand  on  the  right  and,  diagonally  across,  the 
high  dome  of  the  French  Bureau,  with  its 
arcaded  front  beneath,  filling  that  eastern  side. 
A  fountain  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  bare  space, 
and  beyond  it  was  a  charming  little  park  of 
trees;  and  still  farther  the  white  gleam  of  the 
barracks,  through  the  green  and  on  either  side, 
closed  the  vista  to  the  south.  The  Moresque 
architecture,  which  the  French  affect  in  the 
desert,  with  its  white  lights  and  open  structure, 
gave  a  pleasing  amplitude  to  the  scene;  and 
the  same  style  was  taken  up  by  the  main  street 
straight  down  my  left,  whose  line  was  edged  by 
a  long  arcade  with  low,  round  arches,  and  the 
view  lost  itself  beyond  in  the  market  square 


TOUGOURT  175 

with  thick  tufts  of  palms  fringing  the  sky.  A 
few  burnoosed  figures  were  scattered  here  and 
there. 

Hamet  joined  me  at  once,  still  content;  he 
held  in  his  hand  a  telegram  from  his  new  boy, 
or  those  who  could  interpret  for  him.  We 
turned  at  once  to  the  near  corner  by  the  kas- 
bah,  where  was  the  entrance  to  the  old  town 
and  the  mosque  —  a  precinct  of  covered  streets, 
narrow,  tortuous  ways,  with  blank  walls,  dim 
light.  There  were  few  passers-by;  occasion- 
ally there  was  a  glimpse  of  some  human  scene; 
but  the  general  effect,  though  the  houses  were 
often  well  built,  was  dingy,  poor,  and  mean,  as 
such  an  obscure  warren  of  streets  must  seem 
to  us,  and  there  was  nothing  here  of  the  pic- 
turesque gloom  and  threatening  mystery  of 
Figuig.  I  remember  it  as  a  desert  hive  of  the 
human  swarm;  it  was  a  new,  strange,  dark 
mode  of  man's  animal  existence.  This  was  a 
typical  desert  town,  an  old  capital  of  the  cara- 
vans. It  had  been  thus  for  ages;  and  my  feel- 
ing, as  I  wandered  about,  was  less  that  of  the 
life  than  of  its  everlastingness. 

We  went  back  to  the  mosque  and  climbed 
the  minaret.  It  was  a  welcome  change  to  step 
out  on  the  balcony  into  the  flood  of  azure. 
The  true  Sahara  stretched  round  us  —  the  roll 


176    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

of  the  white  sands,  motion  in  immobihty;  and 
all  about,  as  far  as  one  could  see,  the  dark  palm 
islands  in  the  foreground  and  on  every  horizon. 
The  terrace  roofs  of  the  old  town  lay  dark  under 
our  feet;  off  there  to  the  west  in  the  sand  were 
the  tombs  of  its  fifty  kings;  eastward  the  palm 
gardens,  bordering  and  overflowing  into  the 
new  quarter  with  its  modern  buildings,  lifted 
their  fronds;  and  near  at  hand  the  tower  of 
the  kasbah,  and  here  and  there  a  white-domed 
koubba,  rose  in  the  dreaming  air;  and  the  streets 
with  their  life  were  spread  beneath.  Tougourt, 
at  the  confluence  of  the  underground  streams, 
is  the  natural  capital  of  the  Rir  country,  a  com- 
manding point;  on  the  north  and  west  it  is 
walled  against  the  inroad  of  the  sands;  south 
and  east  is  a  more  smiling  scene,  but  the  white 
sand  lies  everywhere  between,  like  roads  of  the 
sea;  it  is  the  queen  of  the  oases,  and  one  under- 
stood in  that  sparkling  air  why  it  was  called  a 
jewel  of  the  desert.  I  went  down  to  the  gar- 
dens, where  there  were  fruit  trees  and  vege- 
tables among  the  palms,  but  for  the  most  part 
there  was  as  usual  only  the  barren  surface  of 
earth,  fed  with  little  canals  and  crossed  by  nar- 
ToWy  raised  footways,  over  which  sprang  the  fan- 
shaped  or  circular  tufts  of  swarded  green.  On 
that  side,  too,  was   a   native  village  —  dreary 


TOUGOURT  177 

walls  of  sun-dried  earth  with  open  ways;  they 
seemed  merely  a  new  form  of  the  naked  ground 
shaped  perpendicularly  and  squared  —  window- 
less,  sealed,  forlorn.  I  entered  one  or  two. 
Indeed,  I  went  everywhere  that  morning,  for 
the  distances  were  short. 

In  the  afternoon  I  sat  down  by  a  table  near 
a  cafe  in  the  market  square,  and  I  remained 
there  for  hours  over  my  coffee,  watching  the 
scene.  All  Arab  markets  are  much  alike,  but 
this  was  prettily  framed.  On  my  right  a  palm 
grove  rose  over  a  low  wall;  on  the  left,  across 
the  broad  space,  the  low  line  of  shops,  with  a 
glistening  koubba  dome  in  their  midst,  broke 
the  blue  sky;  and  all  between,  in  front,  was  the 
market-place.  In  the  foreground  were  a  few 
raised  booths,  or  tables,  and  at  the  near  end  by 
a  group  of  three  or  four  palms  was  a  butcher's 
stock  in  trade,  the  carcasses  hanging  on  the 
limbs  of  a  dead  tree.  Farther  off  to  the  left 
squatted  a  half-dozen  Bedouins  round  little 
fagots  of  brushwood  spread  on  the  ground,  and 
beyond  them  a  group  of  animals  huddled;  in 
the  centre,  on  the  earth,  one  behind  another 
into  the  distance,  were  many  little  squares  and 
heaps  of  country  goods,  each  with  its  guardian 
group  as  at  a  fair  —  vegetables,  grains,  cloths, 
shppers,    ropes,    caps,    utensils,    that    together 


178    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

measured  the  scale  of  the  simple  wants  of  the 
desert.  The  place,  though  not  crowded,  was 
well  filled  with  an  ever-moving  and  changing 
throng,  gathering  into  groups  here  and  there  — 
turbaned  people  of  every  tint  and  costume, 
young  and  old,  poor  and  prosperous,  pictur- 
esque alike  in  their  bright  colors  or  worn  rags; 
but  the  white  or  broAvn  flowing  garments 
predominated.  There  were  Arab  and  Berber 
faces  of  purer  race;  but  in  the  people  at  large 
there  was  a  strong  negroid  character,  showing 
the  deeper  infusion  of  negro  blood  which  one 
notices  as  he  goes  south  of  the  Atlas.  All  the 
afternoon  the  quiet  but  interested  crowd 
swarmed  about;  and  round  me  at  the  close  tables 
were  soldiers  and  Arabs  who  seemed  of  a  more 
prosperous  class,  drinking  and  talking,  playing 
at  cards,  chess,  and  dominos,  and  some  were  old 
and  grave  and  silent.  At  our  table  there  was 
always  one  or  two,  who  came  and  went,  to 
whom  Ilamet  would  perhaps  present  me,  a  thin- 
featured  cadi,  a  burly  merchant,  and  we  talked 
a  little;  but  I  left  the  talk  to  them  and  watched 
the  scene  and  from  time  to  time  snapped  my 
camera.  A  caravan  came  down  the  street,  with 
great  boxes  strapped  on  the  camels,  and  I 
thought  the  first  two  would  sweep  me,  camera, 
table,  and  all,  out  of  the  way;  but  the  long 


TOUGOURT  179 

line  got  by  at  last,  ungainly  beasts  with  their 
pawing  necks  and  sardonic  mouths.  At  Tou- 
gourt  one  was  always  meeting  a  caravan.  As 
I  stood,  at  a  later  hour,  in  a  lonely  corner  by 
the  wall  outside  the  gates,  one  was  just  kneeling 
down  on  the  great  sweep  of  the  sand-hill  to 
camp  in  the  melancholy  light  that  was  falling 
from  the  darkening  sky  —  a  sombre  scene;  and 
when  I  came  out  of  the  hotel  at  night  I  found 
another  sleeping,  humped  and  shadowy,  on  the 
public  square.  The  camel  was  as  omnipresent 
as  the  palm,  and  belonged  to  the  same  dunes 
and  sky;  and  as  I  sat  watching  there  through 
the  uneventful  and  unhurried  hours,  the  market- 
place was  a  microcosm  of  the  desert  world. 

IV 

I  SPENT  the  evening  in  the  Cafe  Maure  of 
the  Ouled-Nails.  They  are  la  femme  of  the 
Sahara,  daughters  of  a  tribe  whose  centre  is  at 
Djelfa,  not  far  from  Laghouat,  leagues  away  to 
the  west,  and  thence  they  are  dispersed  through 
the  desert,  adept  dancing-girls  who  perform  in 
cafes;  and  in  that  primitive  society,  it  is  said, 
no  reproach  attaches  to  their  mode  of  life, 
which  yields  them  a  dowry  and  brings  them  at 
last  a  husband.     The  custom  is  not  peculiar 


180    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

to  the  Sahara;  I  have  read  of  its  existence  in 
Japan  and  in  the  north  of  Scotland  in  the 
eighteenth  century.  I  had  met  with  them 
before,  and  was  famihar  with  their  figures,  but 
always  in  a  tourist  atmosphere;  here  they  were 
on  their  own  soil,  and  au  naturel,  and  I  expected 
a  different  impression. 

The  room  was  rather  large,  with  the  furnace 
and  the  utensils  for  coffee  in  the  corner  near 
the  entrance;  four  or  five  musicians,  on  a  raised 
platform,  were  discoursing  their  shrill  barbarian 
art,  but  it  pleases  me  with  its  plaintive  intensity 
and  rapid  crescendos,  in  its  savage  surroundings; 
a  bench  went  round  the  wall,  and  there  were 
tables,  at  one  of  which  Hamet  and  I  sat  down, 
and  coffee  was  brought.  There  were  not  many 
in  the  room  —  a  sprinkling  of  soldiers,  mostly 
in  the  blue  of  the  tirailleurs,  Arabs,  old  and 
gray -bearded,  or  younger  and  stalwart  like  Ali, 
whom  I  had  lost  sight  of  and  now  found  here, 
much  more  attractive  than  I  had  thought  pos- 
sible, with  a  desert  rose  in  his  mouth  and  a 
handsome  comrade.  A  few  women  with  the 
high  head-dress  and  heavy  clothes  they  wear 
were  scattered  about.  Close  behind  me,  and 
to  my  left,  was  a  wide  entrance  to  the  dark 
shadows  of  the  half-lighted  court  whose  cell- 
like rooms  I  had  inspected  in  the  morning,  and 


TOUGOURT  181 

men  and  women  were  passing  in  and  out,  singly 
and  in  groups,  all  the  evening.  For  a  while 
there  was  no  dancing  —  only  the  music;  but  at 
some  sign  or  call  a  full-grown  woman,  who 
seemed  large  and  heavy,  began  the  slow  cadence 
and  sway  of  the  dance.  I  had  often  seen  the 
performance,  but  never  in  such  a  setting;  at 
Biskra  and  in  the  north  it  is  a  show;  here  it 
was  a  life.  She  finished,  and  I  beckoned  to  a 
young  slip  of  a  girl  standing  near.  She  came, 
leaning  her  dark  hands  on  the  table,  with 
those  unthinking  eyes  that  are  so  wandering 
and  unconcerned  until  they  fill  with  that  liquid, 
superficial  light  which  in  the  south  is  so  like  a 
caress.  I  offered  her  my  cigarettes,  and  she 
smiled,  and  permitted  me  to  examine  the 
bracelets  on  her  arms  and  the  silver  ornaments 
that  hung  from  her  few  necklaces;  she  was 
simply  dressed  and  not  overornamented ;  she 
was  probably  poor  in  such  riches;  there  was  no 
necklace  of  golden  louis  that  one  sometimes 
sees;  but  there  were  bracelets  on  her  ankles, 
and  she  wore  the  head-dress,  with  heavy,  twisted 
braids  of  hair.  A  blue  star  was  tattooed  on 
her  forehead,  and  her  features  were  small  but 
fine,  with  firm  lines  and  rounded  cheek  and 
chin;  she  was  too  young  to  be  handsome,  but 
she  was  pretty  for  her  type  and  she  had  the 
pleasant  charm  that  youth  gives  to  the  children 


182    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

of  every  tint  and  race.  She  stood  by  us  a  while 
with  a  Kttle  talk,  and  as  the  music  began  she 
drew  back  and  danced  before  us;  and  if  she 
had  less  muscular  power  and  vivacity  than  the 
previous  dancer,  she  had  more  grace  in  her 
slighter  motions.  She  used  her  handkerchief 
as  a  background  to  pose  her  head  and  profile 
her  features  and  form;  and  all  through  the 
dance  she  shot  her  vivid  glances,  that  had 
an  elasticity  and  verve  of  steel,  at  me.  She 
came  back  to  take  our  applause  and  thanks, 
and  talked  with  Hamet,  for  her  simple  French 
phrases  were  exhausted ;  there  was  nothing  mer- 
etricious in  her  demeanor,  rather  an  extraor- 
dinary simplicity  and  naturalness  of  behavior; 
she  seemed  a  thing  of  nature.  The  room  began 
to  fill  now;  three  women  were  dancing;  and 
she  went  over  to  the  bench  by  the  wall  opposite, 
and  I  noticed  a  young  boy  of  eight  or  ten  years 
ran  to  sit  by  her  and  made  up  to  her  like  a  little 
brother.  There  were  three  or  four  such  young 
boys  there. 

The  scene  was  now  at  its  full  value  as  a  pic- 
ture; not  that  there  was  any  throng  or  excite- 
ment, and  to  a  European  eye  it  might  seem  only 
dull,  provincial,  rude;  the  rather  feebly  lighted 
room  was  obscure  in  the  corners  and  the  walls 
were  naked;  the  furnace  corner,  however,  was 
full  of  dark  movement,  the  sharp  music  broke 


TOUGOURT  183 

out  afresh,  the  dance  was  almost  sombre  in  its 
monotony,  seen  mechanically  and  without  any 
apparent  interest  by  the  Arabs,  wrinkled  and 
grizzled,  banked  together  or  leaning  immobile 
on  the  bench  by  the  wall;  and  the  cavernous 
shadow  of  the  court  behind  me  made  a  fine 
background  to  the  figures  or  groups  that  dis- 
appeared or  emerged,  or  sometimes  stood  sta- 
tionary there  in  the  semi-obscurity.  To  my 
color  and  shadow  loving  eye  it  was  an  interest- 
ing scene;  and  its  rudeness  enhanced  its  quality. 
I  noticed  many  a  slight  thing:  a  tall  negro 
stalked  along  the  opposite  wall  with  a  handful 
of  candles  which  he  offered  to  a  woman  and 
found  no  welcome  for,  and  he  went  away  ap- 
parently exceeding  sorrowful.  And  I  sat  there 
long  in  the  midst  of  it,  thinking  of  striped  tents 
by  the  city  wall  in  the  sand  near  the  graves;  of 
streets  in  the  Orient  and  the  north  where  the 
women  sit  by  the  door-post  like  idols;  and  es- 
pecially reconstructing  in  imagination  the  scenes 
of  a  romance  by  an  Arab,  which  I  had  lately  read, 
depicting  the  life  of  an  Ouled-Nail  along  these 
very  routes  where  I  had  been  passing,  a  book 
full  of  desert  truth  —  "Khadra,"  it  is  called. 
Toward  ten  o'clock  we  rose  to  go,  and  I  caught 
the  eye  of  the  young  girl  I  had  talked  with,  and 
had  a  smile  for  good-by. 


184    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


The  horses  stood  at  the  door  early  the  next 
morning  for  a  drive  to  Temacin,  some  thirteen 
kilometres  south.  We  were  soon  out  of  town, 
travelling  beside  an  oasis  on  the  left  and  going 
in  the  open  desert;  a  boy  joined  us  from  the 
oasis  and  excitedly  struggled  to  keep  up  with 
the  carriage,  no  diflScult  task,  for  the  route  was 
heavy  with  sand;  two  other  boys  on  donkeys 
ahead  were  having  a  race;  and  the  route  had 
always  some  touches  of  travel.  The  openness 
of  the  view  was  boundless,  and  I  had  not  seen 
finer  sands,  stretching  away  in  long  rolls  and 
ridges,  and  mounded  into  splendid  dunes,  with 
palms  here  and  there  for  horizon  lines.  There 
were  always  groups  and  little  strings  of  camels, 
isolated  but  living,  in  the  expanse  over  which 
the  eye  roamed;  we  passed  from  time  to  time 
within  view  of  clumps  of  lost  palms,  little  oases 
buried  and  left  in  the  sands,  half-submerged, 
derelicts;  now  there  were  Bedouin  tents,  low, 
striped  shelters,  by  ones  or  twos,  pitched  on 
the  sterile  waste,  looking  infinitely  solitary,  at  a 
distance  from  a  small  village  on  a  ridge,  that  it- 
self seemed  a  heap  of  ruined  and  ribbed  walls 
left    abandoned.     The   morning    was   hot,    the 


TOUGOURT  185 

sun  beat  down,  and  every  line  and  tracery  of 
the  wind  was  visible  on  the  sand.  The  surface 
of  the  dunes  was  beautiful  —  light  and  full  of 
the  spirit  of  fantasy;  the  modulation  was  ex- 
quisite, ribbed  and  fretted,  furrowed  in  lines 
and  touched  all  over  with  httle  disks  and 
curves,  like  the  imprint  of  small  shells;  and 
their  mottled  and  wavy  surfaces  broke  the 
monotony  of  the  vast  slopes  and  dunes  like  an 
infinite  enamelling  of  nature.  It  was  the  land  of 
the  blue  distance,  the  simple  in  the  grand,  the 
apotheosis  of  paucity  in  the  means,  of  poverty 
in  the  substance,  elemental,  abstract,  superb: 
the  glory  of  the  desert.  I  never  so  felt  it  as  on 
that  morning.  I  watched  the  slender,  film-like, 
far-off  minaret  of  Temacin  take  body  and  height 
as  we  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  and  saw  plainly 
and  distinctly  at  last  the  boldly  perched,  ir- 
regular oblong  of  walls  and  roofs  that  topped  a 
rising  ridge  of  the  sands,  with  its  minaret  like  a 
dark,  mediaeval  tower  standing  in  heaven  with 
a  lance-like  solitude.  Its  top  was  bordered 
with  a  broad  frieze  of  colored  tiles  and  capped 
with  a  pyramidal  head  or  balcony  pierced  with 
slim  Moorish  arches.  There  were  men  working 
under  the  wall;  but  the  town  looked  marvel- 
lously silent  and  alone,  dark  and  withdrawn, 
like   an   impenetrable  earthen   ruin,  incommu- 


186    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

nicable;  it  rose  as  if  made  of  the  earth  itself, 
with  the  dilapidation  of  old  earthworks,  for- 
bidding and  melancholy,  with  no  touch  of  life 
except  the  gleam  of  its  tiled  minaret;  in  all 
that  sun  it  seemed  sunless  —  ruinous,  decadent, 
infinitely  old.  Soon  after  we  passed  another 
heap  of  earth  walls  on  a  sand-mound,  a  small 
village,  and  came  almost  at  once  to  Tamelhat, 
the  zaouia,  which  we  had  set  out  to  see. 

High  walls  surrounded  the  enclosure,  which 
was  extensive.  Tamelhat  is  a  holy  village,  a 
chief  seat  of  the  religious  order  of  the  Tidjania 
and  daughter  of  the  mother  zaouia  at  Ain  Madhi, 
near  Laghouat,  with  which  it  shares  the  devo- 
tion of  this  important  brotherhood,  one  of  the 
most  influential  of  the  Moslem  associations  in 
North  Africa.  The  zaouia  is  a  sort  of  mon- 
astery or  abbey;  but  I  was  not  prepared  to  find 
it  so  large  an  establishment.  We  left  the  car- 
riage at  the  gate  and  passed  in  to  a  second  gate, 
and  I  was  struck  by  the  ornamental  work  and 
texts  on  them  and  on  the  walls.  A  straight 
avenue  led  down  to  an  open  space  where  the 
mosque  stood  on  the  right  side  of  the  street  as 
we  turned  sharply  upon  it.  Three  square  win- 
dows set  in  little  ornamented  arches  in  the  cen- 
tre broke  the  broad  white  space  of  the  wall,  and 
there  were  other  windows  irregularly  placed.     A 


TOUGOURT  187 

little  to  one  side  was  a  heavy  door,  with  a  double 
row  of  faience  set  over  its  square  top  and  de- 
scending on  beautiful  onyx  pillars.  An  octag- 
onal dome,  tipped  with  a  shaft  of  three  golden 
balls,  completed  the  building  above.  It  was  a 
pretty  exterior  with  a  touch  of  art  in  the  line  of 
windows,  and  as  I  passed  into  the  interior  by 
the  lovely  onyx  columns  it  seemed  like  a  reminis- 
cence, almost  a  renaissance,  to  find  before  my 
gaze  the  familiar  blue  and  green  tiles,  plaques 
of  wrought  plaster  in  arabesque,  pretty  bits  of 
faience  adornment  —  forms  of  the  ornament  and 
color  so  delightful  to  me.  The  interior  was 
roomy,  with  good  spaces,  and  lofty  above;  in 
the  main  fore  part  a  palanquin  was  in  one  corner, 
and  a  few  tombs  were  placed  here  and  there; 
but  the  shrine,  the  tomb  of  the  Marabout  who 
founded  the  zaouia,  stood  in  the  space  to  the 
left,  directly  under  the  dome,  as  in  a  chapel.  It 
was  heavily  covered  with  stuffs,  as  usual,  and 
overhung  with  many  banners;  a  grill  ran  round 
it,  and  outside  of  that  a  wooden  rail;  the  tomb 
also  bore  Arabian  texts.  The  whole  effect,  not- 
withstanding the  bareness,  the  few  elements,  the 
uncostl}^  materials,  had  the  grand  simplicity  of 
the  Moslem  faith;  it  was  impressive  —  imposing 
to  a  simple  soul;  but,  beyond  the  restful  sense 
of  the   neighborhood   of   beautiful   and   sacred 


188    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

things  in  that  far  and  desert  sohtude,  what 
pleased  me  most  and  the  feature  I  carried  away 
to  be  my  memory  of  it  was  the  ample  lights  in 
the  cool  spaces  by  the  open  windows  above  the 
tomb  toward  the  street,  where  the  birds  were 
continually  fluttering  in  and  out,  unfrightened 
and  undisturbed,  as  if  this  was  their  quiet  home. 
I  thanked  the  Arab  sacristan  who  stood  look- 
ing at  me  with  old  and  tranquil  eyes,  and  we 
went  out  and  walked  up  the  street,  which  seemed 
like  a  long  cloister.  There  were  grilled  windows 
on  the  well-built  walls  at  intervals;  a  few  men 
sat  here  and  there  on  benches  along  the  way;  it 
seemed  a  place  of  peace.  The  street,  which  was 
quite  long  and  straight,  ended  in  a  large  court 
near  which  was  the  dwelling  of  the  Marabout. 
Hamet  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  see  him,  and 
I  gladly  assented.  After  a  brief  interval  an 
Arab  came  to  us,  to  whom  I  gave  my  coat  and 
what  things  I  was  carrying;  and  leaving  them  be- 
low, he  guided  us  up  an  irregular  stairway,  as  in 
an  old  house,  and  took  us  into  a  rather  large, 
high  room,  plainly  plastered  and  bare.  The 
desert  saint  —  such  he  was  —  was  seated  on  the 
floor  in  the  middle  of  one  side  by  the  wall  on  a 
rug;  he  was  old  and  large,  white-bearded,  with  a 
heavy  look,  as  if  he  were  used  to  much  repose 
and   was    aged.     He    gave  me  his  hand  as  I 


TOUGOURT  189 

stooped  down  to  him,  and  after  a  word  or  two 
invited  me  to  be  seated  at  a  plain  table  be- 
fore him  in  the  middle  of  the  room;  and  at- 
tendants silently  brought  food.  There  was  al- 
ready in  the  room  the  caid  of  Temacin,  a  stout 
and  prosperous-looking  Arab,  to  whom  Hamet 
presented  me,  and  the  three  of  us  sat  down  to 
what  turned  out  to  be  a  hearty  breakfast.  Two 
or  three  other  tall  Arabs,  apparently  belonging 
to  the  family,  sat  by  the  wall  to  my  left,  as  I 
faced  the  Marabout,  and  at  a  doorway  in  the 
corner  on  the  right  stood  a  group  of  different 
ages,  younger,  with  one  or  two  boys,  intelligent 
and  bright-eyed.  The  caid  and  myself  talked 
in  low  tones,  and  no  one  else  spoke,  except  from 
time  to  time  the  Marabout  gave  some  direction 
to  the  attendants,  apparently  of  a  hospitable 
nature,  as  each  time  it  resulted  in  fresh  dishes. 
There  was  pastry  that  resembled  rolls,  and  after 
a  few  moments,  served  in  another  form,  hot  with 
sugar,  it  resembled  pancakes,  but  I  dare  say  it 
was  something  quite  different,  and  the  Marabout 
urged  it  upon  me;  there  was  another  combina- 
tion that  reminded  me  distantly  of  doughnuts, 
with  which  the  hot  food  ended;  but  there  was  a 
dessert  of  French  cakes,  almonds,  and  a  dried 
aromatic  kernel  hke  peas,  and  much  to  my  sur- 
prise there  were  oranges  that  must  have  come  on 


190    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

camel-back  from  Biskra.  There  was  coffee,  too, 
with  a  curious  pot  and  sugar-bowl,  and  the  whole 
service  was  excellent,  the  attendants  kindly  and 
pressing,  though  very  quiet.  It  appeared  after- 
ward that  no  one  ever  sees  the  saint  eat;  his 
food  is  brought  and  left,  and  he  takes  what  he 
likes  alone.  I  observed  him  through  the  meal, 
and  occasionally  he  addressed  a  sentence  of  in- 
quiry or  interest  to  us.  The  impression  he  made 
on  me  was  one  of  great  indolence,  as  if  he  had 
never  done  anything  for  himself,  and  also  of 
what  I  can  only  describe  as  a  somnolent  tem- 
perament, heavy  and  rousing  himself  at  times; 
but  it  may  have  been  only  age.  The  profound 
silence  and  atmosphere  of  awed  respect  were  re- 
markable; the  few  words  spoken  were  hardly 
above  a  whisper,  and  the  caid  and  I  used  low 
tones.  It  was  a  hospitable  and  generous  break- 
fast, however,  and  the  manner  of  it  w  holly  pleas- 
ant and  friendly;  and  as  I  again  took  the  old 
Marabout's  large,  soft  hand,  and  expressed  my 
pleasure  and  thanks  for  having  been  thus  re- 
ceived, he  seemed  to  me  very  cordial  and  kind; 
and  for  my  part  I  was  glad  that  I  had  found  the 
unusual  experience  of  breakfasting  with  a  saint 
so  agreeable.  The  caid  and  I  parted  below,  and 
I  walked  back  through  the  tranquil  street  and 
by  the  mosque  with  the  bird-haunted  windows 


TOUGOURT  191 

and  the  onyx  portal,  well  pleased  with  my 
morning  in  such  a  place  of  peace  and  good-will. 

We  drove  back  through  the  hot  horizons  of  a 
burning  noon;  by  sombre  Temacin  with  its  far- 
seen  tower,  old  watcher  of  the  desert ;  by  the  dis- 
tant western  oasis  with  its  two  gleaming  koub- 
bas,  that  seemed  to  dissolve  between  the  sands 
and  the  blue;  by  the  Bedouin  tents  crouched  in 
the  long  drifts  below  the  brow  of  the  earthen  ruin 
whose  walls  gaped  on  the  hill  with  fissure  and 
breach.  We  passed  a  bevy  of  bright-colored 
Bedouin  w^omen  hurrying  in  their  finery  to  some 
Marabout  to  pray.  The  long  slopes  and  mounded 
dunes  had  not  lost  that  wonderful  enamel  of  the 
breath  of  the  wind.  All  nature  seemed  to  stretch 
out  in  the  glory  of  the  heat.  It  was  spring  on  the 
desert;  it  was  a  dreaming  world.  ^' Le  vrai  Sa- 
hara,'" said  Hamet,  half  to  himself.  And  slowly 
over  the  palmy  plain,  beyond  the  lost  oasis,  the 
tower  and  minaret  of  Tougourt,  slim  lines  on  the 
sky,  grew  distinct  in  their  turn,  and  solid,  and 
near,  and  we  drove  in  through  the  garden  green 
as  over  a  threshold  of  verdure.  It  was  a  great 
ride. 

The  day  ended  lazily.  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  a  few  courteous  words  with  the  agha  of 
Tougourt,  to  add  to  my  hospitable  distinctions. 
"He  is  an  Arabian  prince,"  said  Hamet  proudly, 


192    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

as  we  walked  away.  Along  the  arcade  I  saw  a 
Jew  seated  cross-legged,  with  his  back  to  the 
jamb  of  his  shop;  he  held  a  heavy  folio  volume 
on  his  lap  and  seemed  to  peruse  it  with  grave 
attention;  that  was  the  only  time  I  ever  saw  a 
native  reading  a  book  in  North  Africa,  and  I 
looked  curiously  at  the  fine  venerable  face. 
The  boys  were  playing  leap-frog  before  the  hotel 
as  I  came  back  from  my  walk;  they  had  thrown 
off  their  haiks,  or  jackets,  or  whatever  their 
upper  garment  might  be.  How  they  played! 
with  what  strong,  young  sinews  and  vivacity  of 
rivalry  and  happiness!  though  the  children  of 
the  street  seemed  often  poor,  destitute,  and  with 
faces  of  want.  I  photographed  two  of  these 
Bedouin  boys,  with  whom  I  had  made  friends. 
In  the  evening  I  sat  outside  and  watched  the 
camp-fires  burning  by  the  camels  in  the  square. 
I  thought  of  the  massacring  of  the  French  gar- 
rison here  forty  years  ago,  and  of  the  protests 
that  a  military  interpreter,  Fernand  Philippe, 
records  from  the  lips  of  the  soldiers  when  a  year 
or  two  later  the  government  contemplated  with- 
drawing from  this  advanced  desert  post.  It  was 
a  place  of  home-sickness,  of  fever,  and  of  utter 
isolation;  but  the  soldiers  wished  to  stay  —  with- 
draw .-^  never!  —  and  all  this  peace  and  prosperity 
that  I  had  witnessed  was  the  French  peace. 


TOUGOURT  193 


VI 


It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  I 
went  out  to  start  on  the  return  under  the  stars. 
The  streets  were  dark  and  silent  as  we  drove  out; 
but  the  heavens  were  briUiant,  and  the  twin 
lights  of  Tougourt  shone  behind  us  like  light- 
houses as  we  made  out  into  the  sandy  plain.  A 
few  miles  on  we  passed  a  company  of  soldiers 
convoying  a  baggage-train  —  strong,  fine  faces 
above  their  heavy  cloaks,  marching  along  in  the 
night.  The  stars  faded  and  day  broke  quietly 
—  a  faint  green,  a  dash  of  pink,  a  low,  black  band 
of  cloud,  and  the  great  luminary  rolled  up  over 
the  horizontal  waste.  The  morning  hours  found 
us  soon  in  the  heavy  sands  of  the  upland,  with 
the  old  gray  mosque  and  stretches  of  the  boisy 
the  desert  drin,  and  we  descended  into  the  coun- 
try of  the  marine  views,  the  land  of  the  mirage, 
mirror-like  waters  shoaling  on  banks  of  palm, 
dreaming  their  dream;  and  now  it  was  Ourlana 
and  the  school,  fresh  horses  and  an  early  arrival 
at  Mraier,  and  sleep  in  the  caravanserai  amid 
horses  and  camels  and  passing  soldiers,  a  busy 
yard.  The  chotts  looked  less  melancholy  as  we 
passed  over  the  lowland  in  the  bright  forenoon, 
and  again  there  shimmered  the  far  salt  —  the 


194    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ocean  look  where  there  was  no  sea,  close  marine 
views,  and  there  was  much  mirage;  and  we 
climbed  the  ascent  and  glided  on  over  the  col- 
ored quartz,  and  the  range  of  the  Aures  rose  once 
more  above  the  horizon,  beautiful  and  calling, 
and  Ain  Chegga  seemed  a  familiar  way-station. 
Fresh  horses,  and  the  last  start,  and  Bordj  Saada 
seemed  a  suburb;  and  as  we  drove  into  Biskra, 
with  its  road  well  filled  with  pedestrians  and  car- 
riages, it  seemed  like  a  return  to  Europe  —  so 
soon  does  the  traveller's  eye  become  accustomed 
to  what  at  first  was  "rich  and  strange."  And 
Hamet  went  to  his  baby  boy. 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS 


V 

SCENES  AND  VISIONS 


IT  was  in  my  early  days  in  the  desert,  and 
Yussef  told  me  tales.  There  was  a  Bedouin 
camp  —  indicated  vaguely  in  the  distance 
by  a  gesture;  a  real  desert  encampment.  "Were 
there  many  tents.''  Twenty?  A  hundred.^" 
"There  might  be  —  thousands!  —  who  could 
know?"  It  was  near  an  old  French  fort  where 
some  relative,  variously  designated  as  little 
brother,  step-brother,  nephew,  cousin,  was  in 
charge;  we  would  be  welcome;  there  would  be 
cous-cous,  real  cous-cous,  made  in  the  desert. 
It  was  mid-winter;  but  a  caravan  had  come 
in  last  night  —  the  roads  were  good. 

So  we  set  out  on  a  bright,  cold  morning  with 
a  heavy  carriage  and  two  large,  strong  horses, 
with  wraps  and  rugs  in  plenty,  and  some  Chris- 
tian stores,  and  drove  out  by  old  Biskra  as  the 
low  sun  began  his  great  circuit  over  the  extended 
plain.  It  was  my  first  venture  into  those  long 
reaches  of  the  waste,  with   their  interminable 

197 


198    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

roll  into  the  horizons.  The  beautiful  cliffs  of 
the  Aures  began  to  stand  up  in  their  true 
grandeur,  detaching  themselves  from  the  level, 
massing  their  long  line  and  isolating  the  range 
in  blue  heaven  —  a  wall  of  the  world ;  the  desert 
floor  spread  out  like  endless  shalloAvs  of  a  sea 
of  marshes,  rising  and  falling  with  a  vast  undula- 
tion of  shadows,  far  away;  the  winter  desolation 
solemnized  the  quiet  scene.  The  road  w^as  good 
enough  at  ifirst,  firm,  though  muddy;  but  the 
amount  of  water  was  surprising,  and  after  a 
few  kilometres,  when  old  Biskra  was  only  a  dark- 
ribbed  reef  behind  us,  not  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  other  oases  that  dotted  the  distances 
about,  the  scene  suggested  more  than  ever  an 
archipelago.  It  was  soon  heavy  going  continu- 
ously, and  we  were  at  our  best  when  we  could 
keep  the  edge  of  a  ridge  along  which  a  lively 
brown  stream  poured  turbulently.  The  land 
was  wet,  soaked,  but  not  submerged;  and  on  all 
sides,  at  varying  distances,  were  living  objects  — 
flocks,  camels,  men  —  and  the  herds,  though 
they  were  really  far  apart,  gained  an  effect  of 
number  from  the  great  spaces  that  the  eye  took 
in.  Except  for  the  character  of  the  landscape, 
it  would  have  been  a  monotonous  drive;  and 
it  was  high  noon  when  we  drew  up  at  the  old 
French  fort,  Bordj  Saada. 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  199 

I  went  toward  the  brow  of  the  hill.  A  soli- 
tary Arab,  an  old  man,  was  doing  his  devotions, 
and  after  I  had  passed,  I  turned  and  looked  at 
him.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  an  Arab 
praying  in  the  desert.  With  his  face  toward 
Mecca,  he  extended  his  arms  and  made  his  genu- 
flexions, prostrating  himself,  oblivious  to  all 
about  him;  he  was  alone  with  his  God.  The 
ease  and  immediacy  with  which  an  Arab  with- 
draws into  his  religion,  independently  of  time, 
place,  and  circumstance,  is  one  of  the  primary 
traits  of  the  physiognomy  of  the  land.  I  kept 
on  to  the  crest  of  the  rise,  and  as  my  eyes  ranged 
over  the  great  circuit  of  the  field  of  vision  the 
impressions  that  had  vaguely  fed  me  all  the 
morning  came  to  a  climax  and,  as  it  were, 
focussed;  it  was  a  scene  of  the  patriarchal  age. 
It  was  as  if  the  dark  film  of  my  memories  had 
suddenly  developed  in  my  eyes  the  picture  of 
Biblical  life  —  the  Scriptural  landscape.  The 
sky  was  filled  with  gray  clouds  in  strata,  spot- 
ting the  expanse,  where  tracts  of  light  inter- 
changed with  the  shadows;  and  in  the  eternal 
vacancy,  scarcely  disturbed  by  the  far,  dark 
line  of  some  emerging  oasis,  everywhere  in  the 
sea  of  light  and  distance  were  herds  of  camels, 
standing  thin  and  tall,  but  distinct,  in  the  long 
perspectives,  solitary  or  netted  wanderingly  to- 


200    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

gether,  and  straggling  flocks  with  Bedouin  boys 
in  couples;  here  and  there  a  low,  brown  Bedouin 
tent  crouched  to  the  soil;  yonder  was  a  brace 
of  horsemen  riding;  the  long  line  of  a  caravan 
behind  me  was  rounding  the  sweep  of  the  hill 
up  from  Tougourt,  with  its  dwarfed  camel 
leaders  rudely  clad.  Few  elements,  but  widely 
distributed.  Flocks  and  herds  and  weather; 
the  life  close  to  nature;  the  lowly  companion- 
ship of  animals;  the  deeper  feeling  always  in- 
tensified in  broad  prospects,  of  the  spiritual 
brooding  of  nature  around  —  in  the  blue  and 
the  sun  and  the  cloud,  in  the  distant  mountain 
range,  and  in  land  and  water:  the  simple,  early, 
primitive  world.  It  lay  unfolded  in  such  in- 
finite silence,  with  such  an  effect  of  agelessness 
and  continuity,  of  the  elemental  thing  —  human 
life  on  earth!  To  me  it  was  early  centuries 
made  visible.  It  was  desert  life  first  grasped  by 
my  eye  —  primary,  quiet,  enduring;  and  how 
humble  in  its  grandeur!  The  impression  did 
not  pass  quickly  away,  but  persisted  long  after- 
ward; however  obscured  by  the  superficial  inci- 
dents of  the  day,  it  emerged  again ;  the  mood  was 
always  there  within.  It  is  not  unusual  for  me, 
and  I  suppose  not  for  others,  to  live  thus  at 
times  in  a  double  consciousness  of  the  outward 
and  the  inward  life,  a  twofold  stream  of  being 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  201 

whose  currents  never  mix,  whose  fountains  are 
different;  but  on  that  day  I  especially  marked 
the  preoccupation  and  excitement  of  the  deeper 
element.  It  was  as  if  from  some  Pisgah  height 
I  actually  saw  the  old  Scriptural  world. 

Yussef  came  to  tell  me  that  the  cous-cous  was 
ready,  for  we  had  been  much  delayed  and  every- 
thing was  more  than  prepared  when  we  arrived. 
I  went  back  to  the  old  French  post,  an  extensive 
four-walled  structure,  built  like  a  fondouk,  with 
stables  and  rooms  on  the  inner  sides,  as  a  mili- 
tary rallying-point  for  storage  and  harborage, 
and  commanding  the  route  to  Tougourt.  It 
had  been  long  disused  and  was  in  charge,  ap- 
parently, of  Yussef 's  ''little  brother,"  who  turned 
out  to  be  a  full-grown  man  with  a  wife.  She  had 
cooked  the  cous-cous,  and  as  I  sat  down  to  my 
meal  in  one  of  the  bare  interior  cells  looking  on 
the  great  yard,  it  was  brought  in  smoking.  It 
is  made  of  farina  with  small  pieces  of  lamb 
mixed  with  it,  and  was  piled  up  in  a  great,  yellow- 
ish cone,  enough  for  twenty  appetites;  and  it 
was  hot,  not  only  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  fragrant 
fuming,  but  it  had  bowels  of  red  pepper.  It 
was  excellent,  and  I  formed  a  liking  for  this 
piece  de  resistance  of  an  Arab  feast  that  has 
never  since  betrayed  me.  Afterward  there  was 
coffee,  with  dates  and  an  orange.     So  far  as  the 


202    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

meal  was  concerned,  our  plan  had  been  a  brilliant 
success.  I  lit  a  cigar  with  contentment,  leaving 
Yussef  and  the  rest  to  their  own  share  of  the 
improvised  fete,  and  when  he  appeared  again 
I  said  impassively,  "Well,  the  camp";  for  I 
had  not  seen  any  signs  of  that  Timbuctoo 
which  had  lured  me  forth  on  the  winter  desert. 
"Do  you  want  to  see  the  camp?"  said  Yussef. 
"Yes,"  I  answered;  "where  is  it?"  It  was 
close  by. 

He  led  me  out  down  the  northern  hillside  a 
short  distance,  toward  a  small  enclosure  on  the 
slope,  stopped,  and  said  "Fo^7a.^"  There  was 
one  Bedouin  tent.  A  low  hedge  of  fagots  sur- 
rounded it,  on  which  a  yellow  dog  frantically 
volleyed  defiance.  "Well,"  I  said,  "come  on; 
I  want  to  see  it."  But  he  stayed  in  his  tracks; 
and,  as  I  looked  back  questioningly,  he  said  with 
great  solemnity:  "Too  much  dog!"  A  woman 
appeared,  and  he  hailed  her,  and  we  went  off  to 
halloo  to  her  husband,  who  presently  approached 
and  very  willingly  led  me  toward  the  tent.  The 
woman  had  collared  the  dog,  and  the  man 
shouted  to  him,  but  he  was  irreconcilable.  The 
last  word  in  my  vocabulary  of  abuse  —  that  be- 
yond which  nothing  can  go — is  "the  manners 
of  a  Kabyle  dog";  and  this  one  was  a  fair 
specimen.     As  I   came  into  the  enclosure  and 


SCENES  AND   VISIONS  203 

stooped  to  enter  the  tent,  his  fury  knew  no 
bounds.  The  woman,  bending  down,  held  him 
securely  with  her  arm  tight  about  his  neck,  and 
the  daughter,  a  young  and  pretty  girl,  clutched 
his  hind  legs  in  a  firm  grip;  and  he  howled  as 
well  as  he  could.  This  was  the  central  group 
in  that  low  interior;  and  the  woman,  with  her 
black  hair  and  full,  gleaming  eyes,  a  face  that 
in  shape  resembled  that  of  an  Indian  squaw, 
heavy  silver  hoops  in  her  ears,  and  a  short, 
muscular,  full-bosomed  frame,  w^as  a  striking 
and  vital  figure  as  she  half  strangled  the  beast 
and  cheerfully  and  with  interest  guided  my  un- 
due curiosity.  I  looked  over  the  rude  cooking 
arrangements,  the  bed,  the  strange  implements 
—  all  the  scanty  furnishing  of  that  human  nest, 
almost  hidden  in  the  wet  ground  of  winter, 
close  to  the  earth.  They  were  all  polite  and 
kindly  and  let  me  see  and  handle  what  I  would. 
The  space  was  small,  and  one  could  not  stand 
upright.  This  was  "their  toil,  their  wealth"  — 
I  thought  of  the  Syracusan  fishers  of  the  old 
idyl;  and  as  I  came  away  with  snatches  of  it 
in  my  head,  and  the  faithful  watch-dog  again 
danced  and  barked  maniacally  on  the  fagot- 
fence,  I  was  glad  that  the  poor  fishers  "had  no 
watch-dog";  and  I  forgot  to  reproach  Yussef 
for  his  tale  of  Timbuctoo  —  numbers  are  vague 


204    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

things  at  best,  and  in  Africa  quite  indescribable 
in  their  behavior. 

While  the  horses  were  being  harnessed,  I 
sought  out  my  hostess,  the  "little  brother's" 
wife,  and  found  her  in  a  deep,  large  kitchen  in 
one  corner  of  the  enclosure.  She  was  dressed 
to  receive  me  in  all  her  finery.  She  was  tall 
and  gaunt,  and  garbed  like  an  Ouled-Nail  — 
bright  stuffs,  rings,  necklaces,  ornaments,  a  bar- 
baric vision  to  my  then  unfamiliar  eyes,  and 
with  the  tinsel  a  good  deal  rubbed  off  in  places. 
She  did  the  honors  with  touches  of  coquetry, 
and  showed  me  the  place  where  the  cous-cous 
had  been  concocted,  the  cradle  with  the  baby, 
and  the  menage,  and  she  took  me  up  a  dark, 
winding,  stone  stairway  to  the  bedroom  above. 
It  was  triste  there  —  a  place  for  a  traveller's 
murder,  I  thought,  in  some  French  romance  of 
feudal  journey ;  when  we  descended,  the  cavern- 
ous gloom  and  rude  largeness  of  the  kitchen, 
in  which  a  good  many  chickens  were  wandering 
about,  seemed  almost  like  a  return  to  sunshine 
and  life.  Then  we  said  good-by  to  the  little 
group  of  various  persons  who  had  served  us  with 
so  much  good-will,  and  drove  off  by  another 
route,  westward,  toward  the  oasis  of  Oumach,  a 
dark  line  far  away. 

We  swept  into  the  country  on  higher  ground, 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  205 

under  a  clearing  sky,  and  the  panorama  came 
back  —  the  primeval  story  of  shepherd  and  herd- 
ing races,  in  the  immutable  grandeur  of  the  great 
lines  that  framed  it.  We  were  going  toward 
the  sun,  and  there  seemed  no  limit  to  the  scene 
before  and  about  us.  It  was  the  plane  of  its  ex- 
tension that  was  wonderful  —  and  everywhere 
the  intensity  of  the  silence,  the  clarity  of  distant 
objects,  and  that  quality  of  the  infinite  which  no 
words,  but  only  a  real  memory,  can  convey. 
Flocks  and  herds  and  men,  scattered  at  great 
intervals,  lessened  behind  us  and  drew  near  in 
the  offing.  The  road  was  mud,  but  by  no  means 
the  slough  of  the  morning.  We  met  no  one; 
only  we  were  abroad  in  the  wet  waste.  We 
passed  but  one  house,  where  there  was  an  Arab 

—  also  with  dogs,  but  not  of  the  Kabyle  variety 

—  who  gave  us  coffee;  and  the  sun  was  wester- 
ing far  when  we  came  to  the  angle  where  we 
struck  the  Biskra  route  and  turned  homeward. 
The  dense  blackness  of  the  Oumach  palms 
showed  like  an  island  in  the  dying  day,  as  we 
passed  them,  near  at  hand;  it  was  too  late,  too 
wet  to  stop  there;  and  shortly  afterward  the  sun 
went  down  in  a  clear  sky,  immense  and  red  on 
the  desert  edge.  Then  I  saw  what  was  to  me 
a  remarkable  phenomenon:  a  sunset  on  the 
earth  instead  of  in  the  heavens.     The  ground. 


206    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

more  or  less  overgrown  with  scattered  vegeta- 
tion, sloped  upward  in  a  long,  bold,  westerly 
swell,  and  cut  the  horizon  clear  with  its  whole 
breadth;  and  this  wide-flung  earth  surface 
through  its  entire  width  flamed  scarlet,  like  a 
low  prairie  fire,  burning  with  light;  the  ground 
glowed  rosy  red,  and  the  plants  and  shrubs  and 
every  growing  thing  stood  up,  distinct  in  every 
twig  and  blade,  as  if  on  fire  with  gold,  burning 
unconsumed,  and  slowly  all  turned  to  scarlet 
and  faded  to  rich  crimson,  softened,  paled  and 
died.  It  was  all  on  the  earth;  at  least,  if  there 
was  any  color  in  the  clear  sky  above,  except  the 
long  horizon  glow,  I  did  not  see  it.  I  remem- 
bered a  line  of  Keats  that  had  always  troubled 
me,  because  I  did  not  know  what  he  meant: 

"While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day. 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue." 

I  suppose  it  was  a  similar  scene  that  he  had  wit- 
nessed. But  in  my  own  experience  I  never  saw 
anything  remotely  resembling  the  marvel  of  that 
desert-kindled  flame  that  brought  black  night. 

It  grew  dark  rapidly.  There  was  no  moon. 
The  stars  flocked  out.  In  the  obscurity  the 
slight  noises  of  the  wind  grew  insistent;  the  cries 
of  the  camels  in  the  darkness  sounded  weird. 
The  road  became  much  worse.     We  dipped  into 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  207 

pools,  and  as  we  advanced  the  tract  was  en- 
tirely flooded.  We  went  at  a  snail's  pace,  the 
horses  finding  their  way  in  the  level  waters  that 
stretched  out  like  a  lake  in  the  gloom.  It  was 
full  night  now.  The  water  was  at  the  hubs,  and 
with  a  lurch  it  came  in  on  the  carriage  floor. 
We  stopped,  for  it  was  clear  we  were  off  the 
raised  ground  of  the  route  on  one  side  or  the 
other.  Yussef  had  been  very  uneasy,  as  he 
might  well  be,  for  two  of  the  White  Brothers  had 
been  drowned  the  previous  week,  travelling 
somewhere  in  this  wide  waste.  He  threw  his 
burnoose  up  and  knotted  it,  and  drew  up  his  gar- 
ments beneath,  and  waded  out  to  determine  the 
lay  of  the  slopes.  Then  we  turned  to  the  rising 
side,  and  after  a  hundred  feet  got  onto  the  floor 
of  the  route  again  and  kept  it  till  we  had  passed 
the  flooded  tract.  There  were  two  or  three 
Bedouin  camp-fires  on  the  west,  and  once  we 
heard  the  sound  of  many  voices  in  the  darkness 
round  one  of  them.  Yussef,  who  was  constantly 
in  movement,  asked  me  if  I  had  a  revolver,  and 
where  was  it.^  It  was  very  handy.  "Bon!" 
he  said,  with  satisfaction.  But  nothing  could 
long  distract  my  attention  from  the  magnificence 
of  the  sky.  There  was  not  a  cloud.  Sirius  was 
in  the  east,  and  Orion  rising;  and  one  by  one  I 
picked  out  the  heaven  marks  of  my  boyhood. 


208    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

north  and  west;  but  they  shone  with  a  splendor, 
a  molten  luminousness,  a  size  and  lowness  un- 
dreamed of,  and  the  lesser  constellations  were 
obscured  by  the  multitude  of  starry  lights  —  it 
was  my  first  view  of  the  desert  sky  at  night. 
The  whole  heaven  was  nebulous  with  scintillat- 
ing sparks  and  milky  drifts,  innumerable  around 
and  about  the  old  leaders  of  the  flock.  It  was 
a  revelation  of  the  starry  universe.  I  was 
brought  back  from  my  reverie  by  Yussef 's  whole- 
souled  ejaculation  —  ''Voila!  vieux  Biskra  T^ 
as  he  sank  back  with  a  long  sigh  of  relief  into 
his  seat.  The  oasis  was  dark  before  us,  and  we 
were  soon  going  by  the  earthen  walls  of  the 
silent  village  and  passing  under  the  tall  black 
palms  that  bordered  the  starred  sky  with  their 
fronds,  and  caught  the  old  constellations  in  their 
tops,  from  which  Orion,  eastward,  lifted  himself 
free  in  heaven.     It  was  the  end. 

But  how  many  times  since  then  have  the 
sights  of  that  drive  come  back  to  me!  When  I 
think  of  Esau  and  Ishmael,  of  Mizpah  and 
Goshen,  I  live  over  again  the  panorama  of  that 
winter  day.  It  was  not  a  scene  I  had  beheld; 
it  was  a  vision. 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  209 


n 


The  dunes  lie  to  the  west  of  Biskra.  They 
are  real  sand-hills;  one  can  climb  on  them,  there 
are  echoes  to  be  waked,  and  the  plain  stretches 
finely  to  the  mountains  behind;  but  it  is  the 
forward  view  that  holds  the  eye.  The  altitude 
is  not  great,  but  high  enough  to  give  a  perch 
something  of  the  commanding  power  of  a  cliff 
prospect  over  the  sea,  and  the  dunes  themselves 
reminded  me  vaguely  of  the  Ipswich  sand-hills 
of  my  own  coast  and  their  sterile  sea-views. 
The  magical  thing  in  the  desert  is  its  unexpect- 
edness; it  is  not  at  all  like  what  one  would  have 
thought.  It  is  not  to  me  oceanic;  but  in  those 
first  days,  owing  to  the  moisture  of  the  air  and 
the  wetness,  it  was  more  so  than  at  a  later  time. 
At  some  hours  and  under  some  lights  the  desert 
from  the  dunes  had  touches  of  an  April  sea, 
fragments  of  its  color;  it  was  blue  —  not  with 
the  solid  blue  of  ocean,  but  with  ethereal  tints, 
insubstantial  veils,  like  inland  August  haze,  or, 
to  speak  exactly,  with  the  moist  blueness  of 
March.  A  brilliant  March  over  stretches  of 
melting  snow  crust  by  the  sea  is  the  bluest  of 
all  months;  the  sky  and  the  ocean  are  deeply 
tinged,  and  the  trickling   waters   of  the  snow 


210    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

surface  reflect  the  heaven  through  pale  gra- 
dations of  the  universal  hue,  which,  though 
nowhere  intense,  has  great  luminous  volume; 
it  is  a  blue  world.  I  suppose  it  was  the  low 
moisture  rising  from  the  desert  that  took  the 
reflections  in  bands  and  spaces;  the  scene 
showed  at  times  vast,  distant  lakes  of  pale  azure, 
violet  lagoons,  strips  of  fallen  sky,  indigo  out- 
looks —  far  away  —  and  all  in  that  almost  aerial 
tone,  insubstantial,  watery,  spring-like,  infi- 
nitely soft  and  delicate.  From  the  heights  of 
El  Kantara,  at  the  mouth  of  the  pass  that  looks 
down  on  Biskra,  such  a  scene  is  superb  in  the 
morning  air,  and  one  might  well  think  he  was 
going  down  to  the  roads  of  an  inland  sea  un- 
like all  others;  and  from  the  dunes,  in  certain 
weather  conditions,  though  on  a  far  lesser  scale, 
one  has  this  vision  of  the  blue  desert. 

But  it  was  not  the  blue  desert  that  made  the 
dunes  a  leaf  in  my  book  of  memory;  it  was  a 
brown  little  Bedouin  boy  on  a  sand-hillock  whom 
I  observed  on  my  way  home.  I  made  his  ac- 
quaintance. He  was  about  ten  years  old;  his 
ragged,  earth-colored  garment  blew  round  his 
sturdy  bare  legs;  he  was  capped  with  black  hair, 
and  his  small  herd  of  goats  fed  beside  him.  He 
was  shy,  and  his  stolid,  great  eyes  looked  up  at 
me  —  those   young   Arab    eyes,    expressionless. 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  211 

but  which  a  touch  of  joy  irradiates,  seeming  to 
hquefy  their  shallow  light,  making  them  soft 
like  a  caress.  He  was  willing  to  be  acquainted. 
I  fed  him  with  chocolate,  and  extracted  from  him 
the  four  French  words  he  knew;  but,  notwith- 
standing the  good  offices  of  Cherif,  whom  I  had 
with  me,  the  best  educated  of  the  guides,  and 
now  the  master  of  the  French-Arab  school  there, 
our  conversation  was  mostly  confined  to  mutual 
kind  looks.  I  left  him  after  a  while,  and  a  few 
moments  later,  as  I  was  walking  toward  the 
carriage,  he  began  to  sing.  I  turned.  There 
he  stood,  erect  on  the  hillock  against  the  desert 
slope  and  the  low  sky,  with  unloosed  voice. 
The  high  treble  rose  with  a  certain  breadth  and 
volume;  but  its  quality  was  its  intensity.  I 
would  not  have  believed  the  silent  little  fellow 
had  so  much  voice  in  him.  *'What  is  it?"  I 
said.  "It  is  for  you,"  said  the  polite  Cherif; 
"it  is  to  thank  you."  "What  does  he  sing.?^"  I 
asked.  ''Un  chant  d' amour,'"'  replied  Cherif; 
and  I  could  get  no  more  from  him  except  "blue 
eyes"  and  "V amour.''  I  looked  up  at  the  boy's 
earnest  face,  as  he  sang  bravely  on,  and  listened; 
and  when  he  had  stopped  we  drove  away,  and 
the  high  treble  began  again  on  the  hillside. 

The  Arabs  sing  much,  but  this  was  the  first 
time  I  heard  song  in  the  desert.     I  always  think 


212    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

of  the  desert  silence  as  embosoming  such  song, 
like  the  hum  of  insects  in  the  grass;  though  it 
may  be  rare  as  a  bird's  wing,  it  is  there  in  the 
great  spaces;  the  desert,  to  my  imagination,  is 
a  song-laden  air,  like  Italy;  but  the  Italian  is 
garden  song,  the  desert  is  wilderness  song;  the 
Italian  is  human,  the  desert  song  seems  almost 
a  part  of  nature,  a  part  of  the  desert.  I  remem- 
ber the  Bedouin  flutes  and  the  low  rhythms  of 
the  road  and  the  camp;  but  when  I  take  up  a 
book  of  Arab  song,  I  see  the  vision  of  the 
Bedouin  boy  on  the  hillock  among  his  goats, 
carolling  his  chant  d' amour, 

III 

It  was  the  time  of  the  April  fetes  at  Biskra, 
and  I  went  out  in  the  delightful  warmth  of  the 
early  afternoon  to  see.  There  were  to  be  races, 
but  I  was  especially  attracted  by  the  promise 
of  a  falcon  hunt.  A  long  line  of  white-robed 
Arabs  streamed  into  the  country  fields,  and  I 
drove  amidst  them  by  a  quiet  road  shimmering 
with  dust,  and  when  I  turned  by  the  great  pen 
where  the  horses  were  kept,  into  the  enclosure, 
the  crowd  was  already  assembled.  It  was  a 
large,  open  plain  whose  side-lines  were  defined 
by  the  crowds  of  spectators  who  did  not  enter. 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  213 

In  the  field  were  many  scattered  groups.  French 
soldiers,  lining  the  course,  and  a  squad  gathered 
on  a  neighboring  hill  gave  the  picturesqueness 
of  military  color  to  the  scene;  a  little  group  of 
soldier  camels  enlivened  the  foreground;  and 
everywhere  were  boys  leading  fine  horses,  vend- 
ers of  all  sorts,  velvet-eyed  children  in  gala 
clothes,  grave  Arab  men.  I  wandered  over  to 
where  a  company  of  white  Mzabites,  girt  with 
brown  cords,  sat  in  a  circle,  with  guns  in  their 
hands,  and  a  superb  banner  on  a  staff  floating 
over  them,  and  to  the  place  where  the  Ouled- 
Nails  —  some  forty  of  them  —  displayed  their 
charms  and  ornaments  with  holiday  faces.  It 
was  an  animated  scene  of  waiting  —  festal, 
decorative;  native  and  European  soldiers,  paw- 
ing horses,  prancing  cavaliers,  crowds  of  white- 
robed  Arabs,  with  ample  spaces.  The  carriage 
of  the  caid  of  Biskra,  drawn  by  two  beautiful 
mules,  stood  next  to  me;  he  was  a  grave  old 
man,  a  mould  of  courteous  dignity,  and  with 
him  were  some  young  children  in  gay  vests  —  a 
charming  party.  But  the  brilliant  note  of  color 
was  given  by  the  red  cloaks  of  the  caids  and 
sub-cai'ds,  blowing  in  the  wind  as  they  rode 
here  and  there  on  beautiful  and  spirited  horses. 
Then  there  was  a  drawing  in  to  the  course,  and 
the  races  went  on  —  tense  moments  of  excite- 


214    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ment  as  the  horses  sped  by,  pauses  and  waits, 
Uke  races  everywhere. 

One  scene  stands  out  from  the  memories  of 
that  day.  It  was  just  before  the  hunting  with 
the  falcon  began.  It  was  a  great  and  solemn 
scene,  fit  for  a  painter's  eye,  but  no  earthly 
canvas  could  hold  it.  The  landscape  lines  were 
all  low  and  long,  immense  in  extension,  the  rigid 
lines  of  the  desert  firm  and  broad.  The  scheme 
of  composition  was  one  of  horizontal  planes. 
In  the  eastern  sky  the  pink  range  of  naked  rock, 
the  Aures,  cut  the  liquid  blue  with  its  almost 
rosy  edges,  a  bank  of  color  reaching  far  away 
into  the  distance;  in  the  foreground,  perhaps 
half  a  mile  off,  a  second  line  of  red-toned  sand- 
hills notched  the  range  low  down ;  beneath  them, 
and  below  the  horizon  line  of  the  earth,  stretched 
a  long  row  of  white-robed  Arabs  massed  stand- 
ing in  a  continuous  line,  and  grouped  together 
as  in  a  bas-relief.  Everj'^  figure  was  distinct  in 
the  brilliant  light  poured  from  the  descending 
sun  on  the  vast  distances  round  about.  I  had 
never  seen  humanity  and  nature  posed  in  just 
that  way.  It  was  a  processional  bas-relief,  im- 
movable and  majestic,  sculptured  on  the  sand- 
hills and  the  rock;  it  was  monumental,  archi- 
tectural, Egyptian.  The  sight  defined  for  me 
one  quality  of  desert  landscape  which   I   had 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  215 

vaguely  felt;  it  is  the  bas-relief  of  nature.  The 
lowness  of  the  visual  plane,  the  clarity  of  the 
human  figures,  the  framing  of  the  scene  against 
which  everything  is  relieved,  suggest  to  me  the 
effects  of  bas-relief;  the  repose  of  the  Arab,  too, 
the  fall  of  the  folds  of  his  garment,  the  simple 
actions,  have  more  of  the  sculptural  as  a  living 
thing  than  I  have  elsewhere  observed.  This 
scene  was  a  supreme  example  of  my  meaning 
and  of  the  artistic  intuitions  involved;  it  sim- 
plified my  perceptions  and  also  universalized 
them.  I  saw  in  it  the  arts  of  Egypt  on  which 
the  immensity  of  nature  still  rested,  as  truly  a 
desert  art  as  the  Moorish  arabesques  at  Tlemcen. 
It  was  under  this  splendid  and  glowing  entabla- 
ture that  the  black  falcon  was  loosed  in  air. 

The  gazelle  —  delicate  and  fragile  creature  — 
ran  a  short  way  ahead;  the  horsemen  followed 
behind;  the  bird  circled  above,  sighted  his 
prey,  darted  swiftly  on,  and  swooped  down, 
striking  the  animal's  head.  The  gazelle  stag- 
gered and  ran  on  as  the  bird  rose,  and  from  his 
height  the  falcon  swooped  again  and  struck; 
the  animal  fell,  but  sprang  up  and  ran  here  and 
there  terrified.  Again  —  and  again  the  little 
creature  collapsed  and  bounded,  ran  on,  but 
it  was  dazed  and  circled  feebly;  and  again  the 
black  shadow  shot  down  from  the  blue,  and  it 


216    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

was  over.  The  horsemen  ran  in,  and  took  the 
falcon  from  the  convulsive  body,  killed  the 
gazelle,  and  flung  a  piece  of  the  flesh  to  the 
victor.  It  was  brief  and  brutal;  but  it  was 
the  reality  of  life,  not  human  life,  but  Life  itself 
on  earth  —  the  spirit  of  life  as  it  might  be  in 
the  desert  without  a  human  eye.  I  drove  back 
through  the  sunset  cloud  of  dust  among  the 
solid  press,  and  came  out  on  long  lines  of  white- 
robed  figures  in  procession  ahead  by  the  country- 
side, vividly  green  with  the  warm  spring.  I 
had  seen  two  visions:  one,  that  seemed  almost 
of  the  eternal;  the  other,  of  life's  moment  — 
the  living  bas-relief  on  the  mountain  wall,  the 
gazelle's  death  agony  in  the  sand.  I  think  that 
the  earth  never  seemed  to  me  more  like  a  great 
amphitheatre  than  then  —  a  spectacle,  solemn, 
inscrutable,  fated. 

IV 

The  processional  is  an  inherent  trait  in  the 
desert  landscape,  owing  to  the  fewness  of  the 
human  figures  and  their  concentration  in  the 
vastness  of  the  horizons.  Everything  seems 
strung  out  —  herds  of  goats,  wandering  camels, 
even  the  scattered  palms;  and  in  the  caravans 
or  troops  of  horse  or  military  trains  the  feature 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  217 

is  emphasized.  It  is  the  trait  of  a  migratory 
land.  The  mise  en  scene  for  a  procession,  in 
the  true  sense,  is  superb.  The  eye  centres  the 
scene  on  the  great  space  and  views  it  whole  and 
entire  at  a  glance;  one  could  see  the  migration 
of  a  tribe  or  the  march  of  an  armed  host  so. 

These  reflections  came  to  me  the  next  day 
when  I  returned  to  the  race-ground.  The  gen- 
eral scene  was  the  same.  A  procession  was  al- 
ready forming  at  the  upper  end  of  the  field. 
The  white-robed  Mzabite  group,  with  brown 
girdings  round  their  loins  and  crossing  their 
backs  and  lacing  their  turbans,  whom  I  had 
seen  the  previous  day  with  their  guns,  squatting 
about  the  splendid  banner,  were  the  leaders  of  the 
formation,  which  was  on  foot.  This  was  pecu- 
liarly the  Arabs'  day.  On  the  rising  ground  the 
procession  gradually  took  shape  and  stretched 
out  against  the  sky  and  the  low  palms,  a  long, 
white  line  of  moving  figures,  with  the  high 
standard  borne  proudly  advanced,  Arab  music, 
guns  gleaming  and  sometimes  held  in  the  air. 
It  moved,  not  with  a  martial  look  in  the  Euro- 
pean sense,  but  with  an  aspect  of  oriental  war. 
They  were  marching  to  be  reviewed  by  their 
chief  near  the  centre  of  the  course,  and  to  per- 
form before  him  their  fantasia,  an  Arab  war 
game,  in  which  one  rank  advances  rapidly  upon 


218    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

another,  fires,  and  whirls  swiftly  back.  They 
came  down  the  track  in  gallant  show,  and  as 
they  passed  the  old  chief  the  melee  began. 
Those  in  front  turned  to  face  the  rank  behind; 
the  second  line  rushed  frantically  forward  in 
confusion,  every  man  for  himself,  fired  their 
guns  almost  amid  the  feet  of  those  before  them, 
whirled  back  waving  their  weapons,  and  came 
on  again,  repeating  the  manoeuvre.  There  was 
a  great  noise  of  powder,  plenty  of  smoke  and 
commotion;  their  bodies  were  all  in  violent 
action,  their  faces  distorted  with  excitement, 
their  garments  fluttering.  They  came  squad 
after  squad,  as  the  groups  slowly  worked  by, 
and  the  din  began  farther  up  the  line.  It  was 
a  great  game,  vivid,  spectacular,  with  the  smell 
of  powder  biting  the  nostrils,  the  rouse  of  fight- 
ing blood,  the  drifting  clouds  of  smoke  —  a 
waking  dream  of  personal  combat;  and  they 
thoroughly  enjoyed  it. 

Then  came  the  turn  of  the  gourriy  the  cavalry. 
The  caids,  splendid  figures  in  their  brilliant  red 
burnooses,  came  first.  Each,  single  and  alone, 
charged  down  the  course  on  the  gallop  with 
headlong  speed,  holding  in  the  right  hand  a 
gun  in  air  and  in  the  left  a  sabre;  and  as  they 
passed  the  old  chief  they  saluted  with  the  sabre 
and  discharged  the  gun,  and  swept  on  till  the 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  219 

thunder  of  their  hoofs  died  away  down  the  track. 
The  goum  followed,  a  fine  body  of  horsemen, 
with  similar  tactics.  The  Arabs  are  expert  in 
horsemanship  as  an  art  of  riding,  but  it  is  said 
they  are  deficient  in  that  part  of  the  art  which 
lies  in  care  for  the  mount;  they  kill  their  horses. 
On  that  day  the  spectacular  charging,  the  dis- 
charge of  firearms  in  motion,  the  jockey-like 
cling  and  rhythm  of  bodies  under  the  streaming 
folds  of  the  riders,  the  elan  of  the  troop,  were 
fascinating,  as  all  skilled  physical  motion  and 
its  accoutrement  is  to  my  eyes;  but  whether 
my  battle  sensations  were  exhausted,  or  for 
some  other  reason,  the  sight  did  not  interest 
me  so  much  as  the  earlier  mimic  combat  on 
foot.  It  was  not  the  proper  setting  for  the 
fantasia  of  the  goum.  One  should  see  it  in  the 
desert  when  the  charging  troop  comes  over  the 
sands  to  salute  some  chief  or  Marabout  with  his 
grouped  attendants,  riding  as  if  to  overwhelm, 
discharging  its  guns  at  close  quarters,  wheeling 
just  in  time  to  avoid  the  shock  of  the  horses. 
Here  on  the  race-course  it  was  a  show;  there  in 
the  sands  it  is  a  native  custom,  vivid  and  gal- 
lant with  the  spirit  of  a  race  —  a  flower  of  desert 
chivalry. 

What  had  drawn  me  to  the  fete  was  the  desire 
to  see  the  Arab  temperament  in  some  of  its 


220    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

violent  manifestations.  One  habitual  trait  of 
Arab  life  to  the  eye  is  the  repose  of  its  figures, 
seated  or  in  motion;  the  grave  courtesy,  the 
immobile  posture,  the  public  dignity  —  the  de- 
corum. But,  speaking  of  the  race,  this  is  the 
repose  of  a  tropic  animal;  it  wakes  to  an  in- 
stant intensity  of  action,  to  a  tiger  violence.  It 
was  something  of  this  side  of  Arab  nature  that 
I  sought;  and  I  found  some  suggestion  of  it  in 
the  mimicry  of  personal  combat,  the  excitement, 
the  confusion,  the  distorted  faces  and  bodily 
vehemence  of  the  play;  and  also  in  the  goum 
some  intimation  of  the  look  of  their  leaders,  the 
old  feudality  of  the  desert.  It  all  helped  me  to 
reconstruct  the  warrior,  marauding,  internecine, 
old  desert  world;  but  it  was  only  fragments  of 
vision.  What  a  vivid  race  in  its  splendid  and 
gallant  spirit  —  as  full  of  fascination  there  as 
it  is  dingy  in  its  sodden  poverty,  earth-bound 
and  earth-soiled,  pitiable  in  its  misere. 


It  was  the  music  of  the  Aissaouas  in  the  night. 
The  din  was  terrific,  barbaric,  ear-piercing,  in- 
struments and  voices,  as  I  entered  the  little, 
roughly  boarded  hall,  sufficiently  but  none  too 
well  lighted,   in  which   hung  a  slight  haze  of 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  221 

smoky  vapor.  There  were  upward  of  a  score 
of  the  order  with  their  chief  standing,  and  a 
few  men  were  seated  on  one  side,  who  made  a 
place  for  me  among  them.  The  group  in  front, 
close  by,  filled  a  small,  oblong  space,  in  the  midst 
of  which  over  a  fire  was  a  fuming  pot;  near  by 
it  two  or  three  musicians  were  beating  the  native 
drum,  others  struck  cymbals,  and  a  line  of  men, 
standing  and  swaying,  lifted  a  keening  rhythm 
of  human  voices  in  a  continuous  cry.  A  monot- 
onous unison  governed  the  whole  music,  which 
came  in  cadences,  falling  to  a  lower  note  and 
slower  motion,  then  rising  with  swift  accelera- 
tion to  a  sort  of  paroxysm,  shrill  and  rapidly 
vibrating,  and  again  dropping  down  till  a  fresh 
impetus  sent  the  hard,  strong,  climbing  pulse 
of  the  rhythm  on  its  high  crescendo.  There  was 
never  any  pause;  again  and  again  it  culminated 
and  fell  away;  but  it  could  no  more  stop  than 
blood.  Cymbals,  drums,  voices  —  continuous 
din  at  first,  and  then  a  felt  rhythm;  it  was  a 
whip  on  the  senses.  Three  or  four  of  the  figures 
were  more  excited;  occasionally  one  bent  his 
head  into  the  fumes  of  the  pot  and  took  long 
breaths;  these  would  dance,  utter  wild  cries, 
creep  about  with  muscular  contortions,  but  no 
one  seemed  to  pay  much  attention  except  the 
chief.     He  was  a  tall,  large  man,  of  uncommon 


222    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

physical  vitality  evidently,  heavily  wrapped  in  a 
white  burnoose,  turbaned;  and  it  was  plain  that 
nothing  in  the  room  escaped  his  eye  for  a  mo- 
ment, as  he  stood  to  one  side  overlooking,  and 
from  time  to  time  giving  an  order  of  care  or  re- 
straint for  the  more  excited  participants.  Once 
accustomed  to  the  noise  and  the  lights,  my  eyes 
found  much  detail.  A  man  just  at  my  right, 
with  the  stare  and  spasmodic  gesture  of  a  half- 
witted person,  was  devouring  pieces  of  the  great 
leaves  of  the  thorn  cactus  as  if  it  were  lettuce. 
Another  went  about  chewing  pieces  of  broken 
glass,  which  he  begged  for  pitifully,  to  all  appear- 
ance, and  was  as  pleased  when  he  got  it  as  a 
child  with  candy;  he  ate  it  with  avidity,  like  a 
ravenous  animal.  There  seemed  to  be  no  ar- 
rangement about  anything,  nothing  designated 
beforehand,  but  every  one  did  as  he  pleased, 
while  the  shrill  music  rose  and  fell,  the  feet  beat 
time,  and  the  few  who  were  given  over  to  the 
intoxication,  turbanless  and  half-garmented, 
swung  among  their  brothers  in  a  kind  of  exalta- 
tion and  partial  collapse  that  were  dervish-like. 
Suddenly  a  young  man  who  was  standing 
near  me  undid  his  turban,  threw  off  the  blouse 
he  wore,  and,  entering  the  central  group  among 
the  musicians,  bent  down  his  head  over  the  fire 
and   inhaled  the  fumes  with   long  gasps.     He 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  223 

joined  in  the  cry  of  the  voices,  danced,  and  grew 
quickly  excited;  he  drew  his  shirt  over  his  head, 
and  thus,  half  naked,  went  again  to  the  fire.  At 
a  sign  from  the  chief  two  other  men  attended 
him,  one  on  each  side,  and  supported  him;  and 
shortly  after  —  he  may  have  been  ten  minutes 
under  the  influences,  in  all  —  the  chief  joined 
them,  and  the  group  came  slowly  toward  me, 
making  the  circuit  of  the  others.  The  youth 
knelt  directly  betw^een  my  knees.  He  was,  per- 
haps, eighteen,  with  a  handsome  face  somewhat 
ascetically  lined,  but  that  may  have  been  due 
merely  to  his  poverty.  He  was  well  formed  and 
muscled,  bare  to  the  waist.  He  seemed  en- 
tirely dazed,  and  dependent  for  direction  on 
those  about  him;  his  body  was  bathed  in  sweat 
and  trembled  violently  all  over;  every  particle 
of  his  flesh  quivered;  his  eyes  rolled,  showing 
the  whites  in  vivid  contrast  to  his  black  hair, 
and  he  panted,  as  if  he  craved  something  in- 
tensely and  blindly.  He  threw  his  head  far 
back,  exposing  his  throat,  and  one  of  the  men, 
who  held  a  long,  straight  sword  over  him,  sank 
the  point  just  at  the  base  of  the  throat.  It 
was  not  a  deep  cut,  but  the  blood  flowed  freely, 
trickling  down  his  breast.  The  whole  took 
place  so  near  me  that  I  could  easily  have 
touched  the  youth  without  reaching;   my  knees 


224    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

were  almost  against  his  arms.  The  others 
helped  him  to  rise,  still  apparently  unconscious, 
and  led  him  off  to  one  side.  Then  the  surpris- 
ing thing  occurred.  The  chief  held  the  boy  in 
his  arms  tenderly,  stroked  him,  caressed  his 
cheeks,  kissed  him;  the  boy's  head  lay  on  his 
breast.  Suddenly,  as  if  with  a  snap,  he  came 
to,  and  instantly  seemed  perfectly  normal,  with 
no  trembling,  no  convulsion,  no  sign  of  his  pre- 
vious state.  He  was  let  alone,  and  in  the  most 
unconcerned  manner  put  on  his  shirt  and  blouse, 
arranged  his  turban,  and  after  standing  about 
a  few  minutes  went  away. 

I  stayed  on,  and  my  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  little  fellow  of  eight  or  ten  years,  a  bright 
street  boy,  who  was  wandering  about  among 
the  others.  He  got  some  sort  of  permission 
from  the  chief,  and  they  passed  a  knife  through 
his  right  cheek  —  clear  through.  He  was  very 
proud  of  the  feat,  and  walked  up  and  down, 
shaking  his  head  to  make  the  knife  waggle  on 
its  outer  hilted  side;  but  he  was  not  at  all  ex- 
cited. I  remained  perhaps  an  hour,  and  then 
shook  hands  with  the  chief,  who  was  gravely 
courteous,  and  I  went  out  under  the  stars;  and 
the  din  died  away  in  the  distance. 

The  Aissaouas  are  an  order  of  magicians  and 
are  widely  spread  from  Morocco,  where  they 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  225 

have  their  centre  at  Meknez,  through  Algeria 
and  Tunis.  Their  founder  was  Sidi  Moham- 
med-ben-Aissa,  of  whom  many  marvellous  mir- 
acles are  related,  but  all  are  of  the  nature  of 
prestidigitation;  the  association  is,  indeed,  in 
some  ways,  a  guild  of  that  art.  Its  repute, 
however,  among  the  Moslems,  has  its  roots  in 
the  old  magic  of  Africa,  and  rests  on  the  hab- 
its of  superstition  which  are  the  common  ground 
of  the  veneration  of  the  miracle-working  Mara- 
bouts. The  Aissaouas  claim  immunity  from 
many  mortal  ills.  Nothing  that  they  may 
eat  —  scorpions,  stones,  glass  —  can  harm  them; 
poisons  are  innocuous;  wounds  plose  at  once 
and  disappear.  They  are  naturally  the  physi- 
cians for  such  ills  in  others,  and  are  snake- 
charmers  and  wonder-workers.  They  are  very 
nomadic  in  their  habits,  and  go  widely  through 
the  land.  Many  wild  reports  are  current  of 
their  rites  at  their  fetes,  of  their  sacrificing  ani- 
mals and  tearing  the  flesh  in  pieces  and  de- 
vouring it  raw;  but  these  and  other  like  things 
are  traits  of  the  orgiastic  state  in  the  lower 
stages  of  civilization  everywhere. 

It  was  a  faint  shadow  of  the  primeval  that 
I  had  seen.  That  human  cry,  mixed  with  the 
sharp  cymbals  and  the  drums,  frantically  wa- 
vering and  receding,  was  an  echo  from  the  cen- 


226    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

tral  forests  far  inland;  and  that  fire  with  the 
pot  was  the  ghost  of  fetichistic  rite,  perhaps 
the  oldest  altar  of  mankind.  The  scene,  the 
swaying  figures,  the  intoxication  of  the  body, 
the  atmosphere,  belonged  to  the  earliest  psy- 
chic experiences  of  the  race.  It  suggested  the 
invisible  superstition  that  lays  over  and  fills 
the  present  minds  of  the  populace  and  the  des- 
ert dwellers.  I  found  the  little  boy  on  the 
street  the  next  day,  and  he  recognized  me.  I 
examined  his  mouth  closely,  and  there  was  only 
a  white  roughness,  like  a  scar,  on  the  inside  of 
his  cheek  and  a  scratch  on  the  outside.  He 
became  very  friendly ;  and  my  pleasantest  mem- 
ory of  the  Aissaouas  is  of  his  street-boy  figure 
standing  on  the  desert,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or 
more  down  the  railway  track,  where  he  had 
gone  to  get  near  to  my  train  and  give  me  his 
last  good-by  with  waving  hands. 

VI 

The  fascination  of  the  desert,  that  which 
makes  a  desert  lover,  is  not  in  its  incidents, 
voyages,  sights;  it  is  in  its  life.  It  is  the  life 
of  nature.  I  do  not  mean  the  picturesqueness 
of  its  human  traits,  the  passage  of  men  and 
animals  over  a  scene  with  which  they  are  so 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  227 

sympathetically  colored  as  to  seem  only  a  part 
of  its  jflora  and  fauna,  its  transitory  efflores- 
cence; nor  the  landscape  with  its  breadths, 
infinities,  hallucinations,  hierarchies  of  color, 
elans  of  the  soul  and  poems  of  the  eye,  with 
which  they  are  in  conscious  contact.  It  is  a 
more  intimate  tie,  and  something  that  passes 
within  —  purifies,  refreshes,  and  releases.  The 
brain  ceases  to  act;  the  nerves  are  put  to  sleep; 
the  fever  is  over.  The  Old  World  has  receded 
far  away;  years,  decades  have  passed,  dropping 
their  burden  of  oblivion  on  all  that  was,  and 
especially  on  what  was  acrid  and  fiery  in  the 
past.  It  is  a  return  to  nature  in  which  she 
seems  to  have  cast  out  devils.  The  senses 
bring  their  messages,  but  they  have  lost  their 
material  utilities.  The  soul  rests  in  its  sensa- 
tions as  a  bird  floats  in  the  air.  It  is  a  fore- 
taste of  Nirvana.  Thought  has  ceased;  duty 
is  silent;  labor  has  vanished;  and  the  life  that 
is  deeper  than  these  and  of  which  they  were 
but  mortal  fragments,  "  unconcerning  things," 
resurges,  vibrates,  flowers.  What  a  relief!  what 
a  transmigration!  and  what  a  new  sense  of  vi- 
tality —  almost  of  a  new  sort  of  vitality !  It  is 
the  repose,  the  silence,  the  concentration  of  be- 
ing within  —  the  peace.  In  the  Western  world 
one  may  attain  this  at  times;    the  desert  im- 


228    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

poses  it  as  the  habit  of  the  soul  that  yields 
itself  to  its  influences.  But  it  is  more  than 
this.  The  cerebral  weight  is  lifted  and  the 
physical  life  resumes  its  natural  lethargies.  It 
is  not  really  lethargic.  It  is  a  new  kind  of  ex- 
istence —  the  life,  unburdened  by  thought,  that 
has  moulded  the  fine  physical  nature  of  this 
race  abounding  in  energies.  What  a  sense  of 
freedom,  of  nonchalance  and  timelessness !  What 
a  vigor  as  I  draw  in  this  pure  air!  The  world 
without  a  thought  has  a  life  of  its  own,  a  strange 
vivacity;  it  is  rich  with  fresh  and  unexpected 
pulses  of  being;  and  this  renewal  and  invigor- 
ation  does  not  come  whip-like,  as  in  the  north, 
with  a  bracing  winter  stroke  on  the  blood  and 
nerves;  but  like  a  caress,  with  a  softness  and  a 
secrecy,  a  tenderness  of  the  solitude,  something 
almost  voluptuous. 

These  are  the  words  of  a  desert  lover  and 
make  no  claim  on  the  credence  of  others;  but 
no  words  can  express  the  peace,  the  liberty,  the 
vitality  I  felt  in  my  desert  voyages.  The  symbol 
and  image  of  the  mood  and  life  I  describe  is  to 
me  the  palm-tree.  No  other  tree  has  ever  so 
influenced  my  spirit  except  the  cypress  in  a  very 
different  way.  I  would  go  out  to  the  oued  in 
the  morning,  for  I  could  not  spare  to  the  day 
the  initial  sense  of  largeness,  the  tranquil  deso- 


\ 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  229 

lation,  the  sea  suggestion  of  the  river  bed,  with 
its  lonely  koubba;  and,  as  the  sun  warmed,  I 
wandered  into  the  palm  gardens  of  the  oasis, 
and  sat  on  the  rough  soil,  and,  as  it  were,  adored 
the  palms.  I  would  lie  there  for  hours,  and 
the  sun  shone  above  them.  Occasionally  Arab 
workmen  would  pass  near,  or  a  boy  or  a  guard- 
ian would  come  and  sit  beside  me.  Otherwise 
there  was  only  the  solitude,  the  unbroken  silence, 
the  repose.  The  gardens  are  rude  and  unkempt, 
with  earth  ditches  and  humps  of  ground,  and 
an  arid  look,  except  where  the  vivid  green  of 
some  cereal  here  and  there  beneath  the  palms, 
or  the  softer  form  and  foliage  of  low  fruit  trees 
amid  their  towering  stems,  give  a  brighter  and 
more  delicate  touch  to  the  general  scene.  There 
is  no  luxury  of  turf  or  anything  garden-like  in 
these  precincts  of  earth  and  running  waters  and 
trees.  There  is  no  effeminacy  in  the  palm. 
Severity  is  the  artistic  trait  of  everything  in  the 
desert.  The  long  lines  of  the  landscape  here 
are  rigid,  solemn,  sombre;  the  naked  rock  of  the 
mountain  ranges  is  stern,  worn  to  the  bone  by 
wind  and  rain  and  sand;  except  for  the  diaph- 
anous and  veiling  effects  of  atmosphere  and 
heat,  and  the  cloud  and  mist  conditions  that  I 
have  mentioned  earlier,  an  austere  sublimity 
governs    the   horizons   and    vistas   all    around. 


230    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

Even  in  the  sands  of  the  south  about  Tougourt, 
where  every  Hne  the  eye  rests  on  is  a  curve  and 
softens  on  the  eye  and  lulls  it  like  a  diapason  of 
great  rhythms,  this  austerity  is  not  lost  from 
the  desert  scene.  It  is  the  nude  in  landscape  — 
not  mere  nakedness  of  earth,  but  landscape 
sculptured  and  modelled  in  grand  harmonies  of 
line  and  color;  and  however  it  may  become 
fiery  with  light  and  heat  and  darken  with  the 
violence  of  heaven,  it  always  retains  its  look  of 
bare  and  solitary  power.  There  is  no  softness 
in  the  race  either.  Their  bodies  are  cast  in 
hard  lines,  but  often  with  great  physical  beauty. 
There  faces  are,  indeed,  seldom  of  the  nobler 
type;  but  their  fine  brown  hands,  their  clear 
torsos  and  throats,  the  curve  of  strength  and 
elasticity  in  their  firm  backs  and  limbs,  with  the 
weathered  and  sun-toned  skin,  their  fierte,  their 
perfection  of  repose,  are  objects  of  delight  to 
an  eye  that  values  bodily  beauty.  To  me  this 
splendid  vigor  and  careless  abundance  of  the 
human  beauty  of  life  is  one  of  the  elements  of 
the  land.  They  have  muscles  of  steel  and  lines 
of  living  bronze.  It  is  daily  art  —  art  brought 
down  from  the  vague  of  fancy  and  out  of  the 
museum  to  live  with.  The  palm  is  like  the  land 
and  the  people;  there  is  no  softness  in  it;  it  is 
the  most  virile  of  vegetable  growths.     Its  trunk, 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  231 

its  leaves,  its  sway  —  but  I  will  not  trust  myself 
to  describe  it.  I  am  never  lonely  with  a  palm 
to  look  at.  I  lie  on  the  ground  for  hours  and 
gaze  up  at  their  massed  green  tops  in  the  blue 
and  the  sun  and  the  warmth  —  "their  feet  in 
the  water,  their  heads  in  the  fire."  I  am  never 
tired  of  looking.  I  do  not  notice  the  absence  of 
thought.  I  am  quiet,  content,  and  doing  noth- 
ing am  very  much  alive  if  vaguely  aware  of  my 
life.  It  is  a  new  mode  of  living,  this  vital  dream- 
ing —  a  volupte  without  weakness,  consciousness 
without  meditation,  vision  without  thought. 
That  is  the  human  aspect  of  this  life  of  nature; 
and,  in  the  world  without,  the  palm  over  there 
symbolizes  it  for  me. 

The  soldier-poet.  Lieutenant  Charles  Lagarde, 
whose  "Promenade  dans  le  Sahara"  I  have  al- 
ready mentioned  as  at  once  the  most  realistic 
and  best-portrayed  book  of  the  Sahara  w^ith 
which  I  am  acquainted,  well  describes  the  palm : 

"A  monumental  tree,  puissant,  royal;  it 
shares  in  perfection  form,  majesty,  elegance.  Its 
isolated  trunk  fills  a  frame  of  five  leagues  and 
peoples  a  solitude.  Its  lift  toward  heaven  has 
a  magnificent  simplicity,  and  it  raises  also  the 
levels  that  surround  it;  it  enlarges  by  contrast 
the  vast  sheets  of  sand  on  which  it  elongates  at 
sunset  its  slender  and  unmeasured  shadow.     In 


232    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

groups  it  has  attitudes  full  of  grace;  among  the 
tufted  shoots  rise  the  unequal  and  diverging 
trunks  which  in  turn  depress  and  proudly  hold 
up  their  plumes.  The  wind  in  the  palms  has 
strange  modulations.  Its  oscillations  have  I 
know  not  what  of  the  voluptuous;  it  is  the  sul- 
tana that  sways,  an  attentive  slave.  The  tem- 
pest tests  it  without  shaking  it;  it  bends  like  a 
bow  and  springs  back  with  the  strength  of  a 
sword-blade.  All  in  it  breathes  primordial  en- 
ergies, and  chants  the  canticle  of  the  Orient." 


VII 

The  crudities  of  the  desert  have  a  charm  all 
their  own.  There  is  a  wild  flavor  not  only  in 
the  life  but  in  the  nostrils.  The  strong  salt- 
petre smells,  impregnating  the  air  for  leagues, 
the  earthy  scents  of  the  marsh-like  and  sodden 
soil,  the  odors  of  cattle,  are  stimulants;  they 
recall  the  whiff  of  salt  marshes  by  the  sea,  the 
tarred  ropes  of  wharfs,  the  sharp  fragrance  of 
rolled  seaweed  on  the  beaches,  aromas  of  low 
tide,  in  days  of  long  ago.  They  are  both 
prophecies  and  memories.  They  wake  my  boy- 
hood blood  and  are  a  renewal  of  long  slumber- 
ing appetites.  I  want  salt  in  my  life,  an  acrid 
savor.     The  desert  dispenses  with  unnecessary 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  233 

refinements;  all  pruderies  cease;  nature  returns. 
Nature  is  clean;  the  wind  and  the  sun  are  great 
scavengers;  even  death  is  no  longer  a  corrup- 
tion, but  a  negligible  detail.  The  skeletons  of 
the  camels  in  the  sands  have  nothing  macabre; 
they  are  there  as  the  tamarisk  and  the  drin  are 
there,  objects  of  the  sands,  like  floating  spars  at 
sea,  wasting  away  in  the  great  deep;  they  show 
the  way  that  life  has  gone.  Even  the  dogs,  with 
their  paws  on  the  carcass,  tearing  the  flesh, 
seem  ordinary;  the  brutality  ceases  in  the  pri- 
meval naturalness  of  the  act  in  the  scene.  It  is 
the  will  of  nature  that  rules  there  in  the  wild, 
and  is  accepted  almost  without  notice.  It  is 
the  same,  too,  with  human  life.  Poverty,  hard- 
ship, privation,  lose  half  their  repugnancy;  it  is 
only  when  men  dispense  them  that  they  revolt 
us;  humanity  accepts  necessary  suffering  with 
little  appeal.  The  eye  hardens,  the  heart  stif- 
fens; the  fibre  of  an  older  world  forms  in  us. 
It  is  a  veritable  return  to  nature.  Old  instincts 
awake;  old  powers  of  endurance  come  back  and 
bring  with  them  old  moods  of  patience;  old  in- 
differences appear.  Cruelties  of  man  or  nature 
are  incidents.  A  new  resistance  is  unlocked  in 
the  body,  in  the  spirit.  It  is  a  strong  life.  It 
is  the  desert  world. 

It  is  under  these  lights  that  one  contemplates 


234    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

the  wretched  human  lot  in  the  wild  glory  of 
nature.  The  grandeur  of  the  natural  scene  — 
the  miserable  life  of  men  —  no  eye  can  miss  that 
contrast  over  all  these  horizons.  The  splendid 
force  of  nature,  visible  in  all  its  energies,  on  a 
scale  of  sublimity,  triumphant,  the  master  of 
the  world !  But  life  —  it  is  la  misere.  Look  at 
the  crouching  tent,  irregularly  striped  with 
brown  and  white,  wool  and  camel  skin,  pitched 
under  the  crest  of  the  great  yellow  dunes  or  in 
some  wrinkle  of  the  rock  face  of  the  waste. 
There  are  a  few  sacks  of  barley  and  dates,  a 
scanty  provision  for  the  future,  heaped  at  the 
foot  of  the  pole;  a  wooden  plate  or  two,  cups, 
an  earthen  pot;  ropes,  a  goatskin  of  water, 
mats  of  alfa  or  other  grass  to  sleep  on.  The 
wife,  with  a  babe  on  her  back  and  others  tum- 
bling about,  toils  through  the  day,  draws  water, 
boils  the  pot,  weaves,  bears  the  heavy  burden. 
The  boys  go  with  the  herd,  the  man  to  his  labor. 
The  night  is  an  uneasy  watch.  The  master 
sleeps,  some  weapon  near  by,  his  head  on  the 
little  sack  that  holds  the  women's  trinkets  of 
coral  or  silver,  or  other  trifles  of  value  to  them; 
if  there  is  money,  it  is  buried.  The  yellow  dog 
with  the  pointed  teeth  growls,  and  howls,  and 
barks  —  a  jackal,  a  thief.  Such  is  the  day  and 
night  of  the  tent,  the  nomad  life,  moving  from 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  235 

place  to  place  with  the  seasons,  subject  to  all 
weathers,  threatened  by  violent  winds  and  sud- 
den torrents,  and  often  flitting  day  by  day  and 
leaving  no  trace.  When  a  stay  is  more  pro- 
longed a  hedge  of  fagots  fends  the  tent  from  the 
wind,  and  gives  a  slight  protection  against  noc- 
turnal attacks  of  other  wanderers.  One  sees  the 
tent;  it  is  a  common  object,  and  gives  up  its  bare-^ 
ness  at  a  glance;  but  one  cannot  realize  its  life*- 
It  is  too  near  to  the  soil,  to  the  deprivations 
and  insecurity  of  animal  life.  What  humility  in 
its  joys  and  pains!  What  parsimony!  What  a 
place  for  age,  which  comes  rapidly  here,  and  is 
isolated  in  its  uselessness!  Death  reaps  in  it  as 
in  a  harvest.  The  weak,  the  old,  the  stricken, 
in  this  life  of  continual  contingency,  go  quickly 
away,  and  are  as  quickly  forgotten.  It  is  the 
life.  The  infant  mortality  is  enormous,  like  the 
death-rate  of  creatures  that  spawn  in  order  that 
the  race  may  survive. 

The  life  of  the  tent  is  on  the  outer  margin  of 
observation,  though  it  is  the  nomadic  life  of 
the  land.  Where  the  natives  gather  together 
in  villages  one  sees  them  more  nigh.  In  a 
Europeanized  place  like  Biskra,  the  native  quar- 
ter of  the  town  —  not  the  village,  which  lies  in 
the  oasis  —  takes  on  the  look  of  a  ghetto. 
There,  in  the  street,  in  the  market,  one  sees  the 


236    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

poverty  of  the  Arabs,  the  slender  pittance  of 
their  days,  wherever  the  humble  wants  and  lean 
provision  of  their  life  emerge  to  public  view; 
and  Biskra  is  a  place  of  great  prosperity.  There 
are  many  villages  in  the  Rir  country,  however, 
that  are  quite  untouched  by  the  European. 
They  have  not  the  look  of  dilapidation  and 
misery  of  the  ksour  of  the  Sud-Oranais,  scarce 
distinguishable  from  the  soil,  dark  and  fallen 
warrens;  but  they  are  only  a  degree  removed 
from  that,  and  their  life  must  be  analogous. 
Arab  poverty  you  may  see  anywhere  in  the 
land,  but  the  full  sense  of  it  comes  and  sinks  in 
only  when  one  has  broken  the  blank  wall  of  the 
secrecy  of  such  a  village,  and  in  some  outlying 
place  of  their  own,  in  the  sand  and  the  sun, 
gone  into  their  houses.  When  a  poor  Arab 
enters  his  house  it  is  as  when  some  animal 
leaves  the  life  of  the  forest  for  his  hole  in  the 
ground. 

One  day  I  went  up  to  El  Kantara,  the  station 
at  the  mouth  of  the  pass  above  Biskra,  whose 
superb  view,  so  often  described,  first  gives  to 
the  traveller  the  measureless  vision  of  the  warm- 
toned,  sterile  lands,  an  empire  worthy  of  the  sun, 
and  unrolls  before  his  eyes  for  vague  leagues  the 
red  and  yellow  earths,  spotted  by  the  black  of 
the  oasis-green  —  the  desert's  "panther  skin,"  in 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  237 

the  old  Roman's  phrase.  In  the  gorge  below 
lies  a  great  palmerai  with  three  villages,  and 
there  I  wandered  all  one  winter  day.  I  entered 
one  of  them  —  the  first  I  had  ever  seen  —  and 
passed  among  the  low  houses  through  the  nar- 
row lanes.  They  were  made  of  sun-dried  mud  — 
a  continuous  blank  wall  with  rough-boarded 
entrances.  It  might  have  been  a  low  line  of 
rude  stables.  There  was  hardly  any  one  in  the 
streets;  occasionally  a  figure  came  into  view, 
and  passed  out  of  sight.  There  was  intense 
silence  —  the  silence  of  night  —  broken  perhaps 
by  the  sound  of  a  hammer,  or  a  muffled  voice  in 
some  interior.  The  streets  were  slimy  and  foul. 
It  was  desolation  —  nothing.  It  was  depress- 
ing. The  bright  sun  shone  upon  all;  the  cold, 
vivid  green  of  the  palmerai  lifted  its  eyebrow 
masses  against  the  stone  of  the  cliffs  and  the 
intense  blue  of  the  sky;  in  the  silence  it  might 
have  been  a  dead  village,  a  ruin  in  some  aban- 
doned land,  like  Yucatan.  The  strange  sadness 
which  is  here  so  often  felt  and  seems  to  exhale 
from  the  desert  landscape,  which  is  independent 
of  brilliancy  or  gloom,  a  feeling  so  intimate  as  to 
be  almost  physical,  like  the  languor  of  heat,  lay 
on  everything.  It  was  la  tristesse,  which  is  uni- 
versal in  the  desert,  the  pathos  of  "something 
far  more  deeply  interfused"  and  infinitely  sad; 


238    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

it  lurked  in  the  air,  the  silence,  the  distance,  in 
the  light  —  everywhere. 

I  went  into  some  of  the  houses.  They  were 
obscure.  The  shadows,  the  damp  earth  smells 
made  them  seem  like  caves  in  the  ground.  They 
were  bare,  rude,  humble  beyond  description.  I 
would  not  have  believed  that  a  man  who  had 
seen  the  sun  could  live  in  such  a  cellar-like  abode. 
I  was  not  naturalized  then,  not  subdued  to  the 
land;  it  was  a  shock  to  my  sensibilities;  but 
later  I  would  stand  in  such  a  place  and,  like 
my  soldier-poet,  feel  glad  that  it  was  not  Paris 
or  Marseilles.  One  easily  detaches  himself  from 
civilization  if  the  desert  talks  to  him  long.  One 
room  stamped  itself  upon  my  memory.  It  was 
a  dark,  bare  bedroom;  the  bed  was  made  of 
rough  timber,  the  unstripped  bark  still  on  its 
four  posts;  there  was  little  else  in  the  room. 
But  on  the  walls  there  were  three  or  four  beau- 
tifully written  Arab  texts  —  verses  of  the  Koran. 

"So  near  is  heaven  to  our  earth," 

I  thought,  instinctively  varj^ing  the  line  to  the 
case;  it  was  an  unconsciously  bitter  jest.  It 
sometimes  seems  that  devotion  in  races  is  in 
proportion  to  the  fewness  of  the  blessings  that 
the  lord  of  heaven  and  earth  gives  to  his  wander- 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  239 

ing  creatures,  and  this  was  in  my  mind.  But 
that  bare,  earth-walled  room  with  its  texts  is 
my  most  vivid  symbol  of  Arab  piety.  It  is  a 
believing  race. 

I  remember  when  the  reality  of  their  belief 
first  struck  home  to  me.  I  was  driving  on  the 
high  plains  below  the  peaks  of  the  range  on  their 
northern  side,  returning  from  Timgad,  that  mag- 
nificent ruin  of  a  Roman  city  of  high  civiliza- 
tion which  still  lifts  erect  its  vistas  of  columns 
over  the  strewn  ground  of  the  abandoned  plain, 
and  in  its  vacant  desolation  brings  back  to  me 
more  vividly  than  Pompeii,  with  a  greater  no- 
bility and  dignity,  with  a  finer  imperialism,  the 
great  Roman  world.  I  had  seen  it  diminish 
and  sink  in  the  low  sunlight,  and  drop  behind. 
Night  had  long  fallen  over  the  uninhabited,  long, 
Colorado-like,  starlit  slopes  where  we  drove.  It 
was  bitter  cold,  and  I  had  just  drawn  another 
sweater  over  the  head  of  my  Arab  boy  beside 
me.  Suddenly  he  said  with  quick  and  earnest 
tones:  "Ze  bon  Dieu  will  take  care  of  you."  I 
was  startled  by  the  intensity  of  the  unexpected 
voice.  "Le  bon  Dieu,''  I  said;  "what  do  you 
mean?"  The  boy  gazed  at  me  steadily.  I 
could  see  the  gleam  of  his  deep  eyes  in  the 
starlight.  "Ze  bon  Dieu,''  he  said,  and  nodded 
up  to  the  sky.     That  nod  was  the  most  con- 


240    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

vincing  act  of  faith  I  ever  saw.  It  was  plain 
that  he  believed  in  God  as  he  believed  in  the 
reality  of  his  own  body.  I  fell  silent,  thinking 
in  how  marvellous  ways  we  are  taught;  for  the 
boy  taught  me  something.  And  as  the  earthen 
room  with  its  texts  is  a  symbol  to  me  of  Arab 
piety,  the  boy's  gesture  is  my  symbol  of  Arab 
faith  —  la  foi. 

I  emerged  from  the  obscurity  into  the  brilliant 
silence  of  the  day;  but  I  could  not  shake  off  my 
oppression.  The  strange  sadness,  whose  nature 
I  have  hinted  at,  which  belongs  to  the  desert, 
was  beginning  to  make  itself  known  to  me.  It 
does  not  come  from  the  land;  it  is  exhaled 
from  the  human  spirit  in  contact  with  its  mortal 
fate.  It  may  be  felt  anywhere  on  the  earth; 
but  its  home  is  in  the  desert.  It  is  sometimes 
more  defined  amid  the  ruins  of  old  cities,  or 
where  great  tragic  events  of  the  race  have  left 
their  traces  on  the  scene  or  in  the  memory  —  sunt 
lacrimoB  rerum.  Here  it  is  indefinable,  a  mood 
—  mentem  mortalia  tangunt;  something  that 
haunts  the  brilliancy  before  the  rainless  eyes  of 
the  race  of  men  who  do  not  lament  any  par- 
ticular catastrophe  or  weep  an  unusual  loss;  a 
half-unconscious  sense  of  the  spirit  penetrated 
and  impregnated  with  having  lived,  with  a  feel- 
ing of  its  common  lot,  its  universal  fate.     It 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  241 

marries  with  the  monotony  of  things,  of  Hfe. 
What  monotony  of  life  must  be  here!  Who 
could  understand  such  lives!  I  felt  a  darkness 
under  all  that  I  had  seen  of  Arab  existence. 
There  is  another  side,  an  underworld,  beneath 
what  appears  on  the  surface.  Read  the  annals 
of  Arab  war,  of  Arab  love,  of  Arab  rule.  What 
cruelty,  what  baseness,  what  rapacity!  What 
a  power  of  hate!  No  pen  can  tell  the  horrors 
of  their  warfare,  their  lust  for  blood  and  pain, 
their  delight  in  carnage  and  savagery.  It  is 
the  same  with  the  story  of  their  amours  —  vio- 
lent, unmeasured,  remorseless  —  explosions  of 
life.  The  natural  happiness  of  the  race  is  in 
these  things.  So  they  paint  the  paradise  before 
the  French  came,  when  *'the  true  believers 
divided  their  time  between  love,  hunting  and 
war,  and  no  one  died  without  having  known  the 
drunkenness  that  an  adored  mistress  or  a  day  of 
powder  gives."  In  the  race  at  large,  what  lower 
forms  does  this  heritage  of  the  wild  take  on! 
One  may  read  the  books,  hear  living  tales,  share 
in  actual  scenes,  and  so  come  to  stand  in  the 
fringes  of  their  experience  and  temperament; 
but  he  does  not  penetrate  into  the  Arab  soul. 

I  wandered  all  day  in  the  palmerai  and  along 
the  river  bank,  loitered  and  forded  and  climbed, 
and  enjoyed  sun  and  wind  and  prospect;  but 
the  echo  of  the  morning  sadness  did  not  leave 


242    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

me,  nor  did  it  fade  from  the  atmosphere.  The 
desert  life  had  laid  its  hand  upon  me.  Later, 
day  after  day,  as  I  stood  in  its  lights  and  shadows, 
and  began  to  understand,  the  desert  moods  grew 
at  once  more  precise  and  more  commingled,  and 
one  among  them  all  seemed  to  absorb  the  others. 
It  was  the  feeling  of  fatality  in  all  things.  It  is 
sympathetic  with  the  drift  of  my  own  conscious- 
ness. In  my  common  days  the  sphere  of  our 
forethought  and  volition  seems  small.  Our  free- 
dom is  no  more  than  a  child's  leash  from  the 
doorstep.  We  are  embedded  in  an  infinite  body 
of  law  and  circumstance;  not  much  is  trusted 
to  ourselves  alone.  Within  this  narrow  range 
human  liberty  is  a  creation  of  civilization,  a 
partial  dethronement  of  the  tyranny  of  nature 
without,  and  of  impulse  within,  a  victory  of 
knowledge,  invention,  and  conscience.  Sub- 
mission is  written  all  over  the  desert  world, 
which  is  still  in  touch  with  the  savage  state. 
There  man  yet  remains  in  large  measure  the 
slave  and  sport  of  nature  and  of  his  own  un- 
reasoned vital  instincts.  It  is  true  that  our  di- 
minished and  shorn  personal  liberty  in  the  state 
is  a  tame  wine  to  the  rich  vintage  of  the  freedom 
of  the  barbarian  to  kill,  to  rape,  to  rob  —  to  eat 
up  his  neighbor  and  all  that  is  his.  The  bar- 
barian is  the  true  superman,  that  monster  of  an 
all-devouring   and    irresponsible   self-will.     The 


SCENES  AND  VISIONS  243 

soul  of  the  desert  is  not  barbarous,  but  emerging 
from  barbarism;  it  is  on  the  way  to  some  com- 
mand of  nature  and  to  self-rule,  and  is  rich  in 
the  ferment  of  life  forces  and  in  personal  ad- 
venture; but  it  knows  the  iron  net  of  necessity 
in  which  it  is  enmeshed.  How  extraordinary  it 
is  to  observe  that  it  is  from  the  freedom  of  desert 
life  that  fatalism  emerges  in  its  most  rigid  and 
thought- vacant  form!  The  first  words  of  the 
struggling  soul  in  its  dim  self -consciousness,  amid 
the  throes  of  impotency  and  defeats  of  effort, 
world-wide  are:  "It  is  written."  The  will  of 
nature,  the  will  of  Allah,  the  will  in  w^hich  is 
our  peace,  however  the  formula  be  read,  is  the 
deepest  conviction  and  last  resort  of  humanity 
in  the  stage  which  it  has  not  yet  known,  if  it 
shall  ever  know,  to  transcend.  Fatality  stares 
from  the  face  of  the  desert,  and  drops  from 
the  lips  of  its  wandering  race  like  leaves  from 
the  dying  forest.  It  is  the  period  of  all  their 
prayers. 

Moods  of  the  desert,  which  are  also  scenes 
and  visions!  the  infinity,  the  solitude,  the  mo- 
notony; la  misere,  lafoi,  la  tristesse;  fate,  peace! 
They  are  not  words,  but  things;  not  thoughts, 
but  experiences;  not  sentiments,  but  feelings. 
On  the  page  they  are  shadows;  there  they  are 
realities. 


ON  THE  MAT 


VI 

ON  THE  MAT 


IT  was  afternoon  in  a  small  oasis  village  of 
the  Zibans.  I  was  seated  on  a  straw  mat 
in  a  little  garden-space  just  outside  the 
cafe,  and  dreamily  regarding  the  intense  blue 
sky  through  the  vine  leaves  trellised  overhead, 
which  flecked  me  with  their  shadows.  An  old 
Arab  was  praying  just  in  front.  Two  groups, 
one  on  each  side  of  me,  were  placidly  seated  on 
clean,  yellow  mats  —  young  men,  whose  dark,  sad 
faces,  thin-featured  and  large-eyed,  contrasted 
with  their  white  robes.  They  were  smoking 
kif  —  a  translucence  of  gold  in  their  clear,  bronze 
skin,  a  languor  of  light  in  their  immobile  gaze, 
content.  The  garden  made  off  before  me,  topped 
with  palmy  distance;  the  silent  street,  to  one 
side,  was  out  of  sight,  as  if  it  were  not.  It 
was  a  place  of  peace.  I  had  finished  my  coffee 
and  dates.  I  filled  my  brier-wood.  The  May 
heat  was  great,  intense:    and  I  settled  myself 

247 


248    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

to  a  long  smoke,  and  fell  into  reverie  and  rec- 
ollection. 

How  simple  it  all  was!  That  praying  Arab 
—  what  an  immediacy  with  God !  What  a  non- 
chalance in  the  dreamy  pleasures  of  those  deli- 
cate-featured youths!  What  a  disburdenment 
was  here!  I  had  only  to  lift  my  index-finger  to 
heaven  dying,  to  be  one  of  the  faithful;  and 
the  fact  was  symbolic,  exemplary,  of  the  simplic- 
ity of  Islam.  It  makes  the  minimum  demand 
on  the  intellect,  on  the  whole  nature  of  man. 
I  had  but  lately  placed  the  faith  in  its  true 
perspective,  historically.  Mohammedanism,  the 
Ishmael  of  religions,  was  the  elder  brother  of 
Protestantism,  notwithstanding  profound  dif- 
ferences of  racial  temperament  between  them. 
The  occidental  mind  is  absorbent,  conservative, 
antiseptic.  It  is  not  content,  like  the  Moham- 
medan, to  let  things  lie  where  they  fall,  disinte- 
grate, crumble,  and  sink  into  oblivion.  Western 
education  fills  the  mind  with  the  tangle-foot  of 
the  past.  Catholicism  was  of  this  racial  strain. 
It  had  a  genius  for  absorption.  It  was  the 
melting-pot  of  the  religious  past,  and  what  re- 
sulted after  centuries  was  an  amalgam,  rich  in 
dogma,  ritual,  and  institution,  full  of  inheritance. 
The  Reformation  was  an  attempt  to  simplify 
religion  and  disburden  the  soul  of  this  inheri- 


ON  THE  MAT  249 

tance  in  so  far  as  it  contained  obsolete,  harmful, 
or  inessential  elements;  many  things,  such  as 
saint's  worship,  art,  celibacy,  were  excised.  Mo- 
hammedanism, ages  before  and  somewhat  dif- 
ferently placed,  initiating  rather  than  reforming 
a  faith,  was  an  effort  of  the  desert  soul  to  adapt 
to  itself  by  instinct  the  Semitic  tradition  of  God 
that  had  grown  up  in  it,  and  to  simplify  what 
was  received  from  its  neighbors.  The  founder 
of  Islam  was  more  absolute  and  radical  in  exclu- 
sion than  the  reformers  in  elimination.  Islam 
had  a  genius  for  rejection.  Mohammed,  with 
the  profound  monotheistic  instinct  that  was 
racial  in  him,  affirmed  the  unity  of  God  with 
such  grandeur  and  decision  that  there  was  no 
room  in  the  system  for  that  metaphysical  scru- 
tiny of  the  divine  nature  in  which  Catholic  the- 
ology found  so  great  a  career;  on  the  other  hand, 
with  his  positive  sense  of  human  reality,  which 
was  also  racial,  he  shut  out  asceticism,  in  which 
Catholic  conscience  worked  out  its  illustrious 
monastic  future.  He  had  achieved  a  reconcilia- 
tion between  religion  and  human  nature  in  the 
sphere  of  conduct,  and  he  had  silenced  contro- 
versial dogma  in  its  principal  field  in  the  sphere 
of  theology. 

A  creed  so  single  and  elementary  had  no  need 
of  a  priesthood   to  preserve  and   expound   it. 


250    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

There  was  no  room  for  a  clergy  here,  and  there 
was  none.  The  Reformation  diminished  but  did 
not  end  the  priest;  Islam  suppressed  him;  yet 
there  remained  much  analogy  between  Mo- 
hammedanism and  Protestantsm  in  the  field  of 
religious  phenomena  in  which  the  priest  is  em- 
bryonic. Protestantism  is  the  best  example  in 
human  affairs  of  the  actual  working  of  anarchy; 
and,  in  proportion  as  its  sects  recede  from  the  au- 
thority and  organization  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
it  presents  in  an  increasing  degree,  in  its  indi- 
viduality of  private  judgment  and  freedom  of 
religious  impulse,  the  anarchic  ideal  of  personal 
life.  Islam  offers  in  practice  a  similar  anarchy. 
I  was  struck  from  the  beginning  with  an  odd 
resemblance  to  my  native  New  England  in  this 
regard.  It,  too,  has  been  a  Marabout-breeding 
country,  with  its  old  revivals,  transcendentalists, 
new  lights.  Holy  Ghosters,  and  venders  of  Chris- 
tian Science.  Emerson  was  a  great  Marabout. 
The  Mormons,  who  went  to  Utah  and  made  a 
paradise  in  the  desert,  were  not  so  very  different 
from  the  Mzabites  who  planted  an  oasis-Eden 
in  the  Saharan  waste.  The  communities  that 
from  time  to  time  have  sprung  up  and  died 
away,  or  dragged  on  an  unnoticed  life  in  country 
districts,  are  analogous,  at  least,  to  the  zaouias 
scattered  through  this  world  of  mountain  and 


ON  THE  IVIAT  251 

sand.  In  many  ways  my  first  contacts  with  the 
faith  were  sympathetic.  The  faith  that  had  no 
need  of  an  intellectual  subsidy,  that  placed  no 
interdict  on  human  nature,  that  interposed  no 
middlemen  between  the  soul  and  God,  woke 
intelligible  responses  in  my  agnostic,  pagan,  and 
Puritan  instincts;  here,  too,  was  great  freedom 
for  the  religious  impulse  and  toleration  of  its 
career;  and  I  saw  with  novel  interest  in  opera- 
tion before  my  eyes  the  religious  instinct  of  man, 
simple  in  idea,  direct  in  practice,  free  in  mani- 
festation, and  on  the  scale  of  a  race.  It  was 
the  desert  soul  that  was  primarily  interesting  to 
me  —  its  environment,  its  comprehension  of  that, 
its  responses  thereto;  and,  examining  it  thus,  its 
religion  seemed  a  thing  intime  and  scarcely  sep- 
arable from  its  natural  instincts  and  notions. 

What  is  it  that  is  borne  in  on  the  desert  soul, 
when  it  wakes  in  the  great  silence,  the  lumi- 
nosity, the  boundless  surge  of  the  sands  against 
the  sky!  Immensity  —  the  feeling  of  the  infinite 
—  nature  taking  on  the  cosmic  forms  of  God. 
The  desert  is  simple.  It  has  few  features,  but 
they  are  all  elements  of  grandeur.  It  is  the 
mood  of  the  Psalms.  Awe  is  inbred  in  the  des- 
ert dweller.  There  is,  too,  a  harmony  between 
these  few  elements  in  their  superb  singleness 
and  his  lowly  mind;    not  much  is  required  of 


252    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

him,  and  that  httle  is  written  large  for  his  under- 
standing; he  takes  things  in  wholes.  His  mind 
is  primary,  intuitive,  not  analytical;  he  does  not 
multiply  thought,  he  beholds;  and  this  vision  of 
the  world  he  lives  in,  a  wonderfully  grand  and 
simple  world,  suffices  for  a  religious  intuition  as 
native  to  him  as  the  palm  to  the  water-source. 
The  palm  is  a  monotheistic  tree.  Monotheism 
belongs  to  the  desert.  The  faith  of  the  desert 
is  a  theism  of  pure  nature,  unenriched  by  any 
theism  of  humanity,  of  the  human  heart  in  its 
self -deification;  it  is  a  spiritualization  of  pure 
nature  worship,  whereas  Christianity,  at  least 
under  some  aspects,  is  the  grafting  of  a  human 
ideal  on  an  old  cosmogony.  The  God  of  the 
desert  is  an  out-of-doors  god,  like  the  Great 
Spirit  of  the  Indians,  who  had  no  temples.  No 
mosque  can  hold  him;  there  is  no  altar  there, 
no  image.  He  cannot  be  cloistered;  he  has 
no  house,  no  shrine,  where  one  can  repair,  and 
abide  for  a  time,  and  come  away,  and  perhaps 
leave  religion  behind  in  a  place  of  its  own.  He 
is  in  the  desert  air;  and  the  desert  dweller,  girt 
with  that  immensity,  wherever  his  eye  falls  can 
commune  with  him;  five  times  daily  he  bows 
down  in  prayer  to  him  and  has  the  intimate 
sense  of  his  being;  he  does  not  think  about  him 
• —  he  believes. 


ON  THE  MAT  253 

The  desert  cradles,  nurses,  deepens,  colors, 
and  confirms  this  belief.  It  is  a  land  of  monot- 
ony, full  of  solitude  and  silence.  The  impres- 
sion it  thus  made  upon  me  was  profound,  and 
amounted  to  an  annihilation  of  the  past.  The 
freshness  of  the  wilderness,  as  the  discoverer 
feels  it,  lay  there;  it  abolished  what  was  left 
behind ;  the  Old  World  had  rolled  down  the  other 
side  of  the  mountains.  Life  in  its  turmoil  and 
news,  its  physical  clamor  and  mental  clatter, 
life  the  distraction,  had  ceased.  It  was  not  that 
silence  had  fallen  upon  it;  but  the  soul  had  gone 
out  from  it  and  returned  to  the  silence  of  nature. 
There  is  no  speech  in  that  rosy  ring  of  mountain 
walls,  in  the  implacable  gold  of  the  sands  un- 
dulating away  to  the  blue  ends  of  earth,  in  the 
immutable  sky ;  they  simply  are.  In  the  passage 
of  the  winds  there  is  stillness.  It  is  not  that 
there  are  no  sounds.  The  hush  is  of  the  soul. 
Monotonous.^  Yes.  That  is  its  charm.  Monot- 
ony belongs  to  the  simple  soul;  and  what  is 
monotone  to  the  eyes  of  the  desert  dweller  is 
monotone  in  the  ideas  and  emotions  of  his  psy- 
chology. Repetition  belongs  to  Islam;  its  words 
and  rites,  its  music  and  dances  are  stereotyped, 
something  completely  intelligible,  identically  re- 
current, like  tales  that  please  children  —  the 
same  stories  in  the  same  words.     Prayer  and 


254    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

posture,  formula  and  rhythm,  endlessly  renew- 
ing the  same  idea  and  the  same  sensation  —  they 
imprint,  they  intensify ;  desert  moulds,  they  help 
the  soul  to  retain  its  conscious  form.  The 
larger  mind  that  discriminates,  analyzes,  and 
explores,  may  tire  of  this;  but  it  also  finds  in 
such  a  solitude,  full  of  silence  and  monotony,  a 
place  where  the  soul  collects  itself,  integrates, 
and  has  more  profoundly  the  sense  of  its  own 
being. 

The  desert  is  not  only  the  generator  and 
fosterer  of  the  desert  soul  in  its  spiritual  atti- 
tude, its  practices  and  processes,  by  the  larger 
and  universal  elements  in  the  environment,  but 
in  more  detailed  ways  it  provides  the  atmosphere 
of  life.  It  is  strangely  sympathetic  with  the 
dweller  upon  its  sands.  He  is  a  nomad;  and  the 
desert  is  itself  nomadic.  The  landscape  is  a 
shifting  world.  The  dunes  travel.  The  scene 
dissolves  and  rebuilds.  The  sand-hills  lift  a 
sculptured  mountain  edge  upon  the  blue,  swells 
like  the  bosom  of  a  wave,  precipices  and  hollows 
like  mountain  defiles,  outlooks,  and  hiding-places 
in  the  valleys,  and  the  surface  shall  be  finely 
mottled  and  delicately  printed  and  patterned 
with  lace-work  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see.  The 
wind  erases  it  in  a  night,  hollows  the  hills  and 
fills  the  hollows;  it  is  gone.     The  oases  disap- 


ON  THE  MAT  255 

pear;  they  are  like  islands  sinking  in  the  sea  of 
driving  sands;  you  see  their  half-sunken  trees 
like  ruins  buried  beneath  the  wave,  still  visible 
in  the  depths.  The  face  of  the  land  is  eph- 
emeral; to  leave  the  route  is  to  be  lost.  And 
after  the  wind,  the  light  begins  its  play.  The 
lakes  of  salt  and  saltpetre,  the  lifeless  lands,  the 
irremediable  waste  —  ruins  of  some  more  ancient 
and  primordial  desolation,  the  region  cursed 
before  its  time  with  planetary  death  —  change, 
glitter,  disclose  placid  reaches  of  palm-fringed 
water,  island-paradises,  mirage  beyond  mirage 
in  the  far-reaching  enchantment,  strips  of  fertil- 
ity like  lagoons  on  the  mineral  mud  as  when  one 
sees  a  valley-land  through  clouds.  The  heat 
gives  witchcraft  to  the  air;  size  and  distance  are 
transformed;  what  is  small  seems  gigantic,  what 
is  far  seems  beside  you;  a  flock  of  goats  is  a 
cavalcade,  a  bush  is  a  strange  monster.  To  the 
nomad  in  those  moving  sands,  in  that  air  of 
illusion  and  vision,  in  those  imprecise  horizons, 
the  solid  earth  might  seem  the  stuff  that  dreams 
are  made  on.  The  desert  is  a  paradox;  immu- 
table, it  presents  the  spectacle  of  continuous 
change. 

l!\owhere  is  the  transitory  so  suggested,  set 
forth,  and  embodied.  Here  is  the  complete 
type  of  human  existence,  permeated  with  im- 


^56    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

permanence,  the  illusory,  and  oblivion,  yet  im- 
mutable; the  generations  are  erased,  but  hu- 
manity abides  with  the  same  general  aspects. 
The  land  is  a  type,  too,  of  the  desert  past  —  its 
tribes  globing  into  hosts  and  dispersed,  its  dynas- 
ties that  crumble  and  leave  not  a  ruin  behind,  its 
inconsecutiveness  in  history,  wars  like  sand- 
storms, peace  without  fruition.  It  is  on  this  life, 
and  issuing  from  its  mortal  senses,  that  there 
falls  the  impalpable  melancholy  and  intimate 
sadness  of  the  desert.  The  formlessness  of  the 
vague  envelops  all  there;  it  is  the  path  of  the 
unfinished,  the  illimitable;  it  is  the  bosom  of  the 
infinite  where  life  is  a  momentary  foam.  Mys- 
tery is  continuous  there,  a  perpetual  presence. 
Its  human  counterpart,  its  image  in  the  soul,  is 
la  reve,  the  dream,  reverie,  as  changeful,  as 
illusory,  that  takes  no  root,  fades,  and  vanishes. 
It  is  not  a  merely  contemplative  sadness;  it  is 
a  physical  melancholy.  The  oases  are  full  of 
fever,  of  the  incredible  languors  of  the  heat  — 
breath  is  a  weight  upon  the  lungs,  blood  is 
weariness  in  the  veins,  life  is  an  oppression  and 
an  exhaustion.  It  revives,  but  it  remembers. 
There  is  a  swift  spring-time  of  life,  a  resilience, 
a  jet,  of  the  eternal  force,  and  age  comes  like 
night  with  a  stride.  Death  is  the  striking  of  the 
tent.     It  is  quickly  over.     You  shall  see  four 


ON    THE    MAT  257 

men  passing  rapidly  with  the  bier,  a  wide  frame 
on  which  the  body  Hes,  wrapped  in  white;  in  the 
barren  place  of  the  dead  they  dig  with  haste  a 
shallow  hollow  in  the  sand;  they  stand  a  moment 
in  the  last  prayer;  they  have  covered  the  grave 
swiftly  and  stuck  three  palm  twigs  in  the  loose 
sand,  and  are  gone.  A  change  of  day  and  night, 
of  winter  and  summer,  of  birth  and  death,  and 
at  the  centre  the  wind-blown  desert  and  the 
frail  nomad  tent;  and  then,  three  palm  twigs  in 
the  nameless  sand. 

The  desert  gives  new  values  to  life.  It  is  a 
rejuvenation  of  the  senses,  a  perpetual  renais- 
sance. The  fewness  of  objects  and  their  isola- 
tion on  the  great  scene  increase  their  worth  to 
the  eye,  and  in  the  simple  life  all  trifles  gain  in 
meaning  through  receiving  more  attention;  the 
pure  and  bracing  air  invigorates  the  whole  body 
in  all  its  functions,  and  the  light  is,  in  particu- 
lar, a  stimulant  to  the  eye.  The  intensifica- 
tion of  the  pleasures  of  the  senses  is  due  also 
to  the  austerities  and  hardships  of  life  in  the 
waste  and  the  change  from  suffering  to  ease. 
To  the  nomad,  after  the  rigors  of  the  sands, 
heat  and  thirst  and  glare,  all  vegetation  has 
the  freshness  of  spring-time;  the  oasis,  wel- 
coming his  eyes,  is,  in  truth,  an  opening  para- 
dise.    The  toiling  caravan,  the  French  column, 


258    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

know  what  it  means.  The  long,  black-green 
lines  of  the  oasis  over  the  sands  is  like  the 
breaking  of  light  in  the  east;  the  sound  of  run- 
ning water  is  a  music  that  reverberates  in  all 
their  nerves;  fruits  hanging  in  cool  shadows, 
flowers,  groves  —  it  is  la  vie,  the  great  miracle, 
again  dreaming  the  beautiful  dream  in  the  void. 
After  the  hamada,  the  desert  route,  it  is  para-* 
disc.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  the  sensual 
intensity  of  this  delight,  of  its  merely  bodily 
effervescence.  The  Arabs  are  a  sensual  race,  and 
the  desert  has  double  charged  their  joys  with 
health  and  hardship;  their  poverty  of  thought 
is  partly  recompensed  by  fulness  of  sensation. 
The  oases  are  not  gardens  in  the  European 
sense;  they  are  rude  and  arid  groves  and  or- 
chards and  fields,  with  a  roughness  of  untamed 
nature  in  the  aspect  of  the  soil;  and  the  desert 
everywhere  is  savage  in  look,  with  the  uncared- 
for  reality,  the  nakedness,  and  the  wild  glory 
of  primeval  things.  Yet  I  have  never  known 
habitually  such  delicacy  and  poignancy  of  sen- 
sation. The  wind  does  not  merely  blow,  it  ca- 
resses; the  landscape  does  not  smile,  it  mirrors 
and  gives  back  delight;  odors  and  flavors  are 
penetrating;  warmth  and  moisture  bathe  and 
cool;  there  is  something  intimate  in  the  touch 
of  life.     There  is  a  universal  caress  in  nature. 


ON  THE  MAT  259 

a  drawing  near  —  something  soothing,  lulhng, 
cadenced  —  felt  in  the  blood  and  along  the 
nerves,  a  volupte  diffused  and  physical;  for  there 
is  a  flower  of  the  senses,  as  there  is  a  flower  of 
the  mind,  as  refined  in  its  exhalation,  in  the 
peace  of  vague  horizons,  in  wafted  fragrances 
of  the  night,  in  luminosities  of  the  atmosphere, 
in  floating  vapors  of  morning,  in  the  dry  bed  of 
the  oued  under  the  moon,  in  the  pomegranate 
blossom,  in  the  plume  of  the  date-palm  flower, 
in  all  evanescence,  the  companionship  of  some 
little  thing  of  charm,  the  passing  of  a  singing 
voice.  The  desert  is  rich  in  those  mysteries  of 
sensation  that  remain  in  their  own  realm  of 
touch  and  eye  and  ear,  reverie  and  dream.  It 
is  a  garden  of  the  senses;  and  the  wild  flavor 
of  the  garden  gives  a  strange  poignancy  to  its 
delights. 

This  sensuality  prolongs  its  life  in  the  higher 
faculties;  it  penetrates  and  impregnates  the 
mental  consciousness;  memory  and  imagina- 
tion are  strongly  physical;  the  soul-life  itself 
is  deeply  sensuous.  It  is,  in  this  primitive  psy- 
chology, as  if  one  should  see  the  coral  insects 
building  up  beneath  the  wave  the  reef  that 
should  emerge  on  a  clear-skied  world.  The  des- 
ert music  reveals  this  most  clearly.  Sensation, 
as  has  been  often  said,  enters  into  the  arts  in 


260    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

varying  degrees.  Literature  is  the  most  disem- 
bodied of  the  arts;  its  images  are  most  purely 
mental  and  free  from  physical  incarnation;  then, 
in  order,  painting,  sculpture,  music  include 
greater  actuality  of  sensation  by  virtue  of  which 
aesthetic  pleasure,  as  it  arises  from  them,  is  more 
deeply  drenched  in  physical  reality.  The  senses 
are  preliminary  to  the  intellect;  that  is  why 
the  arts  precede  the  sciences  in  human  evolu- 
tion. The  desert  dweller  has  no  sciences,  and 
his  only  art  is  music,  which  itself  is  in  a  primi- 
tive stage,  being  still  characteristically  joined 
with  the  dance  in  its  original  prehistoric  union. 
The  Arabs  sit,  banked  on  their  benches,  apa- 
thetic, gazing,  listening,  while  the  monotonous 
rhythm  of  the  dance  and  the  instruments  rises, 
sways,  and  terminates,  and  begins  again  inter- 
minably. What  is  their  state?  It  is  an  obses- 
sion, more  or  less  profound,  of  memory  and 
imagination,  retrospective  or  prospective  experi- 
ence, felt  with  physical  vagueness,  defined,  vivi- 
fied, and  made  momentarily  present  by  the 
swaying  dancer  in  the  emotional  nimbus  of  tne 
music.  It  is  the  audience  at  only  one  remove 
from  participation  in  the  dance,  contemplative 
but  still  physically  reminiscent  of  it.  The 
dances  are  of  two  general  types:  that  of  the 
negroes,  a  physical  hysteria,  full  of  violent  ges- 


ON  THE  MAT  261 

ture,  leaping,  and  loud  cries,  the  barbaric  par- 
oxysm ;  the  other  that  of  Arab  origin,  a  voluptu- 
ous cadencing  to  a  monotonously  responsive 
accompaniment.  The  desert  dweller  is  a  realist; 
his  emotions,  his  desires  have  not  transcended 
the  facts  of  life;  his  poetry,  so  far  as  it  exists, 
and  there  is  a  considerable  amount  of  it,  is  one 
of  simple  and  positive  images.  Mysticism,  in  the 
intellectual  sense,  the  transformation  of  the 
senses  into  the  spirit,  does  not  exist  for  him; 
not  nearer  than  Persia  is  the  mystic  path  which 
leads  to  the  ecstasy  of  the  soul's  union  with  the 
divine,  of  the  Bride  with  the  Bridegroom;  the 
desert  knows  nothing  of  that  Aryan  dream. 
Sensation  remains  here  in  its  own  realm;  and 
its  summary  artistic  form  is  music,  itself  so  phys- 
ically penetrating  in  its  method  and  appeal. 
The  music  of  the  desert  is  to  me  very  attract- 
ive; it  engages  me  with  its  simple  and  direct 
cling;  snatches  of  carolled  song,  the  humble 
notes  of  its  flutes,  the  insistence  of  its  instru- 
ments fascinate  and  excite  me.  It  is  the  music 
of  the  senses. 

The  sensuality  of  the  Arabs  also  found  other 
climaxes,  in  love  and  war.  It  is  the  intensity 
of  their  passion  and  of  their  fighting  which  has 
charged  their  history,  as  a  race,  with  its  great- 
est brilliancy;    and   at  their  points  of  highest 


262    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

achievement  a  luxurious  temperament  has  char- 
acterized them,  which  has  made  an  Arabian 
dream  the  synonym  for  all  strange  and  soft  de- 
hghts.  The  desert  in  its  degree  has  this  mol- 
lesse,  physical  languors,  exhaustion;  but  its  home 
is  in  the  oasis-villages.  The  true  nomad  con- 
temns the  oasis-dwellers  as  a  softened,  debili- 
tated, and  corrupt  race;  the  life  of  the  nomad 
is  purer,  hardier,  manlier;  he  is  the  master; 
the  oasis  pays  him  tribute.  The  life  of  the 
senses,  however,  in  either  form,  passes  away; 
vitality  ebbs  the  more  swiftly  because  of  its 
rapid  and  intense  play;  pallor  falls  on  the  sen- 
sations, they  fade,  and  joy  is  gone.  Melan- 
choly from  its  deepest  source  supervenes;  in 
the  desert  —  age  in  its  abandonment,  decay,  and 
poverty;  in  the  oasis  —  life  somnolent,  effemi- 
nate, drugged.  The  wheel  comes  full  circle  in 
the  end  for  all.  Meanwhile  the  vision  of  life 
is  whole,  and  goes  ever  on.  Youth  is  always 
there  in  its  beauty  and  freshness.  There  is  al- 
ways love  and  fighting.  Nature  does  not  lose 
her  universal  caress.  The  desert  soul  still  adores 
the  only  God  in  his  singleness.  There  is  great 
freedom.  The  route  calls.  It  is  human  life, 
brave,  picturesque,  mysterious  —  beset  by  the 
sands,  but  before  it  always  the  infinite. 

Yet,  fascinated  though  I  was,  I  was  aware  of 


ON  THE  MAT  263 

some  detachment.  Sweet  was  the  renaissance  of 
the  senses  —  what  brilhancy  and  joy  in  their  play 
—  merely  to  look,  to  breathe,  to  be!  To  have 
come  into  one  of  the  titanic  solitudes  of  nature, 
comparable  only  to  ocean  wastes  and  ampli- 
tudes of  the  sky,  and  to  dwell  there,  far  from 
the  mechanic  chaos,  the  unbridled  egotism,  the 
competitive  din  —  what  a  recovery  of  the  soul 
was  there,  of  human  dignity,  of  true  being!  and 
to  find  there  a  race  still  in  a  primitive  simplic- 
ity, unburdened  by  thought,  not  at  warfare 
with  its  mortal  nature,  the  two  poles  of  the 
spirit  and  the  body  married  in  one  sphere  — 
and  to  feel  the  rude  shepherding  of  nature  round 
their  nomad  lives,  inured  to  hardship,  but 
swiftly  responsive  with  almost  animal  vitality 
to  her  rare  kindlier  moods  and  touches  —  it  was 
a  discovery  of  the  early  world,  of  ancestral, 
primeval  ways.  It  was  a  refreshment,  a  disbur- 
denment,  an  enfranchisement;  and  it  was  a 
holiday  delight.  Yet  over  these  simplicities, 
austerities,  and  wild  flavors  there  still  hung  a 
moral  distance,  something  Theocritean,  the 
mood  of  the  city-dweller  before  pastoral  charm. 
To  sit  in  the  cafe  in  the  throng  of  Arabs  with 
the  coffee  and  the  dance,  to  muse  and  dream 
on  the  mat  alone,  to  lie  apart  in  the  garden 
and  be  content  —  it  was  a  real   participation; 


264    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

but  in  the  background  behind,  in  the  shadow 
of  my  heart,  was  the  old  European  though 
eluded.  This  life  had  the  quality  of  escapade 
—  to  see  things  lying  crumbled  and  fallen  with 
none  to  care,  to  be  free  of  the  eternal  salvage 
of  dead  shells  of  life  and  thought  —  a  world  so 
little  encumbered  with  the  heritage  of  civiliza- 
tion! How  many  years  had  I  spent,  as  it  were, 
in  a  museum  of  things  artificially  preserved  in 
books,  like  jars  —  in  the  laboratory  of  the  intel- 
lectual charnel-house!  The  scholar,  accumulat- 
ing the  endless  history  of  human  error,  has  no 
time  to  serve  truth  by  advancing  it  in  his  own 
age;  he  lives  so  much  with  what  was  that  he 
cannot  himself  be;  his  inheritance  eats  him  up. 
The  crown  of  Western  culture  is  apt  to  be  an 
encyclopaedia.  There  was  no  library  in  the  des- 
ert. And  religion  —  how  much  of  it  comes  to  us 
moderns  in  a  dead  form!  Surely  religion  is  a 
revelation  of  the  soul,  not  to  it.  This  is  a  doc- 
trine of  immanence.  If  the  divine  be  not  im- 
manent in  the  soul,  man  can  have  no  knowledge 
of  it.  Religion  is  an  aura  of  the  soul,  a  ma- 
terialization of  spiritual  consciousness,  varying 
in  intensity  of  light  and  tones  of  color  from 
race  to  race,  from  age  to  age,  and,  indeed,  from 
man  to  man;  it  is  the  soul's  consciousness  made 
visible.     It  is  not  to  me  interesting  as  scientific 


ON  THE  MAT  265 

truth  is,  a  thing  of  worth  in  the  realm  of  the 
abstract,  but  rather  as  artistic  truth  is,  a  vital 
expression,  something  lived.  What  a  reality  it 
had  here  in  the  desert  soul  —  its  effluence,  almost 
its  substance,  giving  back  the  spiritual  image 
of  nature  in  humanity,  a  condensation  of  the 
vast  spaces,  the  vague  horizons,  the  monotony, 
the  mortal  burden,  in  a  prayer!  It  is  a  new 
baptism  into  nature,  if  not  unto  God,  only  to 
see  this  aura  of  the  soul  in  the  desert.  The 
scene  in  all  its  phases  —  landscape  and  men  — 
was  to  me  an  evocation  of  the  long  ago.  But  the 
soul  does  not  return  upon  its  track.  The  sim- 
ple life  is  only  for  the  simple  soul.  The  soul  of 
the  old  European  is  not  simple.  Yet  if  the 
leopard  could  change  his  spots,  if  one  could  lay 
off  the  burden  of  thought,  lay  staff  and  scrip 
aside,  and  end  the  eternal  quest,  nowhere  else 
could  he  better  make  the  great  refusal  and  set 
up  an  abiding-place  as  in  this  nomad  world. 
Its  last  word  is  resignation;  peace  is  its  last 
desire. 

The  desert  w^orld  is  a  d^^ing  world.  That  is 
the  sadly  shadowing,  slowly  mounting,  fatally 
overwhelming  impression  that  grows  on  the 
mind  and  fills  it.  Death  is  the  aspect  of  the 
scene;  sterility,  blankness,  indifference  to  life. 
Inhospitality  is  its  universal  trait  and  feature. 


266    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

It  is  as  hostile  to  animal  and  vegetable  as  to 
human  life  —  its  skeleton  lakes  without  fishes, 
its  drifting  valleys  without  birds,  its  steppes 
without  roving  herds.  Its  oases  are  provisioned 
with  water  and  bastioned  with  ramparts  against 
the  eternal  siege  of  the  sands;  to  preserve  them 
is  like  holding  Holland  against  the  sea.  The 
mere  presence  of  man,  too  —  what  is  human  — 
shares  in  this  aspect  of  death.  I  have  men- 
tioned the  cemeteries,  mere  plots  of  extinction, 
anonymous,  without  dates,  leaving  nothing  of 
degradation  to  be  added  to  the  sense  of  hope- 
lessness, futility,  and  oblivion.  The  dwelling- 
places  of  the  living  are  hardly  more  raised  above 
the  soil  or  distinguishable  from  the  earth  they 
crumble  into  —  typically  seen  in  those  ksour  of 
the  south,  cracked,  with  gap  and  rift,  dissolving 
in  ageless  decay  and  abandonment,  mere  heaps 
over  the  underground  darkness  of  passages  and 
cells  —  or  here  embosomed  in  a  great  silence, 
full  of  solitude  and  secrecy,  the  life  of  the  palm 
garden,  of  the  great  heats,  of  the  frigid  nights; 
always  and  everywhere  with  the  sense  of  an 
immense  desolation,  denudation,  and  depriva- 
tion. The  life  of  the  tent  is  one  of  sunshine 
and  vitality  by  comparison;  humble  and  rugged, 
it  has  no  decadence  in  its  look;  in  the  villages 
the  decadence  seems  almost  of  the  soil  itself. 


ON  THE  MAT  267 

One  goes  out  into  the  desert  to  escape  the  op- 
pression of  this  universal  mortal  decay;  and 
there  is  no  life  there,  only  a  passage  of  life,  of 
which  the  skeleton  of  the  camel  in  the  sands 
is  the  epitaph. 

A  dying  world  and  a  race  submissive  to  its 
fate.  In  that  nomad  world,  where  everything 
is  passing  away,  there  is  nothing  fixed  but  the 
will  of  Allah.  It  is  not  strange  to  find  fatality 
the  last  word  of  Islam.  In  the  desert  world 
the  will  of  nature  appears  with  extreme  naked- 
ness; the  fortune  of  man  is  brief,  scant,  and 
unstable;  the  struggle  is  against  infinite  odds,  a 
meagre  subsistence  is  gained,  if  at  all;  and  the 
blow  of  adversity  is  sudden  and  decisive.  Pa- 
tience everywhere  is  the  virtue  of  the  poor, 
resignation  the  best  philosophy  of  the  unfor- 
tunate, and  defeat,  as  well  as  victory,  and  per- 
haps more  often,  brings  peace.  These  are  great 
words  of  Islam,  and  nowhere  have  they  sunk 
deeper  into  life  than  in  the  desert-soul.  They 
are  all  forms  of  that  fatality  which  the  desert 
seems  almost  to  embody  in  nature,  to  exercise 
in  the  lives  of  its  children,  and  to  implant  in 
their  bosoms  as  the  fundamental  fact  of  being. 
Fatality  is  in  the  outer  aspect  of  things  and 
exhales  from  the  inward  course  of  life;  melan- 
choly, impotence,  immobility  accumulate  with 


268    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

the  passage  of  years;  effortless  waiting,  indo- 
lence, prayer,  contemplation  —  these  are  the 
shadows  in  which  is  the  end.  This  mood  of 
the  despair  of  life  has  nowhere  more  lulling 
cadences  of  death.  The  desert  is  a  magnifi- 
cent setting  for  the  scene  —  its  strong  coloring, 
its  vast  expanses,  its  unfathomable  silences;  its 
desolate  grandeurs,  its  sublime  austerities,  its 
wild  glory  —  godlike  indifference  to  mankind ; 
its  salt  chotts,  immense  as  river  valleys,  tufts 
of  the  sand-sunken  palms  —  premonitions  of 
the  disappearance  of  life  from  the  earth,  the 
final  extinction  of  that  vital  spark  which  was 
the  wildfire  of  the  planet,  the  thin  frost  work 
on  the  flaking  rock,  the  little  momentary  breath 
of  love  and  war  and  prayer.  Here  life  takes 
on  its  true  proportions  at  the  end  —  all  life;  it 
is  an  incident,  a  little  thing  in  the  great  scene. 
A  dying  world,  a  dying  race,  a  dying  civiliza- 
tion, truly;  but  the  old  European,  the  wise  pes- 
simist in  the  shadow,  has  seen  much  death;  to 
him  it  is  but  another  notch  on  the  stick.  To 
me,  personally  near  to  it  and  fascinated  in  my 
senses  still,  it  is  tres  humain,  exciting,  engaging; 
and  the  melancholy  that  penetrates  it  ever  more 
deeply  and  mysteriously  does  not  interfere  with 
its  charm,  its  blend  of  delicacy  and  hardiness, 
of  spirit  and  sense,  of  freedom  and  fate.     I  have 


ON  THE  MAT  269 

a  touch  of  the  heart  of  the  desert-born.  "If 
love  of  country  should  perish  from  the  earth," 
said  my  soldier-poet,  "it  would  be  found  again 
in  the  heart  of  the  Bedouin."  No  race  is  more 
attached  to  the  soil,  or  so  consumed  with  home- 
sickness for  it.     The  Bedouin  loves  the  desert. 


n 

A  STRANGE  thing  to  me  was  the  absence  of 
any  political  state.  There  has  never  been  a 
political  state,  properly  speaking,  in  the  desert. 
Such  was  the  parcelling  of  the  communities, 
so  elementary  the  governmental  form,  so  feeble 
the  impulse  of  political  aggregation  and  cohe- 
sion, that  the  general  condition  might  seem  to 
be  an  anarchy.  In  the  Kabyle  villages  of  the 
mountains  and  among  the  Mzabites  of  the 
Sahara  the  assemblies  of  the  elders  with  the 
election  and  change  of  head  men  present  an  as- 
pect of  such  primitive  simplicity  and  indepen- 
dence that  they  might  be  thought  freemen's  in- 
stitutions of  an  ideal  purity;  on  the  other  hand, 
the  absence  of  any  political  centres  of  concen- 
tration forbade  the  formation  of  a  nation.  The 
recognition  of  the  tribal  blood-tie  conserved 
groups,  smaller  or  larger,  with  a  greater  or  less 
sense  of  unity;   but  feud  was  the  natural  condi- 


270    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

tion  of  these  units,  extending  to  the  smallest  and 
even  into  families,  and  in  the  larger  world  polit- 
ical history  found  only  hordes  hastily  massing 
for  temporary  ends  and  dissolving  in  a  night, 
or  empires  of  facile  conquest  and  loose  tributary 
bonds,  of  the  nature  of  a  primacy  rather  than  a 
sovereignty,  and  without  long  continuity  of  life. 
Public  order,  with  its  correlatives,  security  and 
peace,  was  little  realized,  and,  however  ideal 
local  institutions  might  seem  within  the  group, 
it  was,  viewed  largely,  a  barbaric  world. 

A  very  pure  democracy  in  its  primitive  form 
prevailed.  All  men  were  equal  before  Allah, 
and  the  condition  of  equality  generally  obtained 
also  between  man  and  man.  Inequality  belongs 
to  civilization;  the  absence  of  that,  and  espe- 
cially the  lack  of  security  for  wealth  and  its 
inheritance,  of  an  official  class  of  state  function- 
aries and  a  clerical  hierarchy,  and  pre-eminently 
the  lack  of  knowledge,  removed  main  sources  of 
that  differentiation  which  has  stratified  modern 
society.  There  was  a  noblesse  of  the  sword  and 
also  of  religion,  grounded  originally  on  descent 
from  Mohammed  or  more  generally  and  pow- 
erfully here  in  the  West  from  some  Marabout, 
but  neither  class  was  really  separated  from  the 
people.  The  only  effective  source  of  inequality 
was  virtu  —  real  ability.     Tradition  made  it  the 


ON  THE  MAT  271 

glory  of  the  Arab  noble  to  dissipate  his  patri- 
mony in  gifts  to  his  friends  and  to  rely  on  the 
booty  of  his  own  hand  for  himself.  Ignorance, 
besides,  is  a  great  leveller,  and  poverty  is  the 
best  friend  of  fraternity;  liberty  was  native  to 
the  soil.  It  was  a  society  where  all  men  had 
substantially  the  same  ideas,  customs,  and  de- 
sires, thought  and  acted,  lived,  in  the  same  way. 
It  w^as  a  natural  democracy,  and  inbred;  and 
to-day  this  trait  is  one  of  the  most  striking  and 
refreshing  that  a  sojourn  among  its  people  brings 
to  notice,  for  it  is  a  real  democracy,  unconscious 
of  itself,  vital,  and  admirable  in  its  human  re- 
sults. 

Race-consciousness  found  historic  expression 
only  in  the  religious  field.  The  spots  where  the 
faith  first  began  on  the  soil,  the  tombs  of  great 
leaders  in  the  conquest,  such  as  that  of  Sidi 
Okba  in  the  oasis  not  far  away,  the  white  domes 
of  the  Marabouts  sown  like  village  spires  through 
all  this  land,  were  places  of  sacred  memory,  cen- 
tres of  race-consciousness,  and  here  took  the 
function  of  integrating  the  common  soul  of  the 
race,  as,  in  other  civilizations,  political  memo- 
rials of  great  public  events  and  famous  men 
develop  national  consciousness.  In  the  desert 
patriotism  and  faith  are  one  emotion.  The  ideal 
Mohammedan  state  is  a  pure  theocracy  in  which 


272    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

the  political  and  spiritual  powers  are  one  and 
inseparable;  where  this  condition  prevails  is  the 
dar  el  Islam,  the  land  of  Islam,  the  soil  of  the 
true  faith;  elsewhere,  wherever  the  union  is  im- 
perfect or  the  faith  must  concede  to  the  infidel, 
is  the  dar  el  harb,  or,  as  we  should  say,  mission- 
ary countries.  Neither  Turkey  nor  Egypt  is 
dar  el  Islam;  its  narrow,  though  still  vast,  realm 
is  the  Libyan  sands,  where  it  still  refuges  its 
people.  It  is  an  arresting  sight  when  religion 
goes  into  the  desert  to  be  with  God;  the  Pil- 
grims of  the  Mayflower's  wake,  the  Mormons  of 
the  sunflower  trail  fill  the  imagination  with 
their  willingness  to  give  up  all,  to  go  forth  and 
plant  a  new  state  sacred  to  their  idea.  It  is 
always  an  heroic  act.  Such  a  coming  out  from 
among  the  world,  such  a  going  forth  into  the 
inhospitable  waste  has  been  characteristic  of 
desert  history.  Solitude  is  the  natural  home  of 
orthodoxy,  of  the  fanatic  sect  and  the  purist. 
Mohammedanism  in  its  primary  stage  was  a 
particular  religion  of  a  desert  people;  in  its 
secondary  stage,  as  a  conquering  faith,  it  had  to 
develop  its  capacity  for  internationalism,  its 
powers  of  adaptation  to  other  breeds  and  of 
absorption  of  foreign  moods  and  sentiments, 
its  fitness  to  become  a  world  religion;  in  itself 
also  there  was  necessarily  the  play  of  human 


ON  THE  MAT  273 

nature  involving,  as  time  went  on,  a  variation 
into  sects,  heresies,  innovations;  thus,  for  ex- 
ample, it  absorbed  mysticism  from  the  extreme 
East  and  whitened  the  West  with  the  worship 
of  saints.  The  faith  was  purer  and  more  rigid 
in  the  desert,  generally  speaking,  and  was  there 
more  primitively  marked;  there  it  was  safest 
from  contaminating  contacts;  and  there  also 
Western  civilization,  closing  round  and  pene- 
trating its  realm,  finds  the  most  fanatic  and 
obdurate  resistance. 

Race-resistance  to  the  invasion  of  the  modern 
world,  naturally  following  the  lines  of  race- 
consciousness,  notwithstanding  the  aid  it  re- 
ceived in  the  beginning  of  the  struggle  from  the 
old  feudality  of  the  desert,  had  its  stronghold  in 
religion  and  its  organization;  and,  specifically, 
it  found  its  practical  rallying-points  and  strong- 
est alignment  in  the  confraternities,  or  secret 
orders,  with  their  zaouias,  analogous  to  mediaeval 
abbeys  and  monasteries,  which  had  so  great  a 
development  in  North  Africa  in  the  last  century 
—  some  more  enlightened  in  leadership  and  ca- 
pable of  assimilating  Western  benefits  in  some 
degree,  others  stupidly  impervious  to  the  new  in- 
fluences and  events.  These  brotherhoods,  whose 
nomadic  agents  under  the  guise  of  every  humble 
employment  course  the  land  with  great  thor- 


274    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ougliness,  are  ideal  organizations  for  agitation, 
collecting  and  disseminating  news,  preparing 
insurrection,  fomenting  and  perpetuating  dis- 
content and  secret  hope;  it  is  they  and  their 
machinations  that  are  back  of  the  Holy  War,  as 
a  race  idea.  They  are  all  hearths  of  the  faith; 
but  some,  such  as  the  Tidjaniya,  recognizing 
both  the  fact  of  French  power  and  the  reality 
of  the  benefits  it  confers,  are  committed  to 
political  submission  and  peace;  others  are  less 
placable,  and  nurse  eternal  hate  of  the  infidel, 
with  a  credulous  hope  of  expelling  him  from  the 
land;  and  one,  the  most  irreconcilable  and  the 
most  powerful,  is  an  active  foe.  This  fraternity 
is  the  Snoussiya,  having  its  seat  at  Djarbout,  in 
the  Libyan  desert,  where  it  has  constituted  a 
veritable  empire  of  the  sands,  a  pure  Moham- 
medan state;  it  has  divided  with  the  neighbor- 
ing empire  of  the  Mahdi,  and  with  that  of  the 
Sultan  of  Morocco,  the  proud  title  of  dar  el 
Islam.  Sidi  Snoussi,  the  founder,  was  a  humble 
taleb  of  Medjaher,  in  the  province  of  Oran.  He 
preached  the  exodus,  and  led  the  recalcitrant 
and  irreconcilable  into  the  Cyrenaica,  and  there 
by  virtue  of  his  natural  ability  and  enterprise 
built  up  a  state,  to  which  his  sons  have  suc- 
ceeded, the  eldest  of  them  having  been  already 
designated  by  his  father  as  the  promised  Mahdi, 


ON  THE  MAT  275 

the  always  expected  Messiah  of  Islam,  who 
should  restore  its  power  as  the  true  kingdom  of 
God  on  earth.  It  is  this  state  which  is  the  cen- 
tre of  Panislamism,  the  hope  of  a  reunion  of  the 
entire  Mohammedan  world  after  the  fall  of  the 
Sultan  at  Constantinople  should  be  accom- 
plished. The  desert  round  about  owns  its  sover- 
eignty from  Egypt  to  Tunis,  and  it  is  buttressed 
on  the  south  by  the  negro  states  which  it  has 
joined  in  proselytizing,  converting  them  from 
their  savage  fetichism. 

The  spirit  of  proselytism  has  always  been 
active  in  North  Africa.  The  story  of  its  saints 
from  early  days  contains  a  missionary  element, 
acting  at  first  on  the  indigenous  barbarism  of 
the  desert  and  mountains  and  extending  at  a 
later  period  to  the  negro  populations  of  the 
Soudan.  The  Snoussiya,  together  with  other 
Mohammedan  agents,  has  conducted  a  prosely- 
tism to  the  south  which  has  been  astonishing 
in  its  success  and  has  long  arrested  European 
attention.  Islam  is,  indeed,  well  adapted  to 
convert  inferior  peoples,  and  adopts  an  intelli- 
gent policy  in  practice.  The  simplicity  of  the 
faith,  the  absence  of  any  elaborate  dogma  or 
ritual,  its  slight  demand  on  the  intellect,  to- 
gether with  its  avoidance  of  anything  ascetic  in 
its  rule  of  life,  made  it  easily  acceptable  in  itself; 


276    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

and  its  tolerant  advance,  without  pressure,  on 
the  imitative  instincts,  the  ambitions  and  in- 
terests of  the  savage  populations  with  which  it 
is  in  political  and  commercial  contact,  secures 
its  spread  without  irritation  or  disturbance.  It 
is  the  warrior  race  of  the  Foulbes  in  the  Soudan 
who  have  most  carried  forward  this  movement 
of  mingled  spiritual,  political,  and  commercial 
conquest;  beside  these,  like  the  Jew  by  the 
Arab,  are  the  Haoussas,  a  black  race,  with  a 
commercial  instinct,  who  established  themselves 
under  the  protection  of  the  Foulbes;  they,  gen- 
erally speaking,  have  the  monopoly  of  instruc- 
tion and  are  the  simple  teachers  of  the  region; 
the  fetichistic  tribes,  coming  under  the  influence 
of  these  Moslem  expansionists  by  conquest, 
protectorate,  marriage,  in  one  and  another  way 
of  the  old  and  universal  methods  of  the  trans- 
formation of  a  lower  race  by  a  higher,  are  thus 
added  to  the  domain  of  Islam.  So  important 
is  this  religious  change,  and  so  striking  is  the 
event,  that  some  Catholic  bishops  have  seen  in 
it  a  providential  preparation  by  an  intermediate 
state  for  a  future  evangelization.  What  is  note- 
worthy is  the  active  spread  of  Mohammedanism 
contemporaneously  in  Central  Africa  and  its 
close  connection  with  the  power  of  the  Snous- 
siya,  the  most  energetic  and  fanatic  centre  of 


I 


ON  THE  MAT  277 

Islam.  The  dream  of  the  poor  preacher  of 
Oram  has  come  partly  true :  in  leading  the  irrec- 
oncilable into  the  Libyan  desert  and  building 
a  refuge  for  them  in  the  most  desolate  wastes 
of  the  eastern  Sahara,  in  the  dar  el  Islam,  he 
established  a  new  centre  for  the  faith  in  a  region 
backed  by  populations  where  its  natural  spread 
is  great  and  its  presence  is  likely  to  be  long  con- 
tinued, and  he  aroused  through  all  the  Moham- 
medan world  the  spirit  of  Panislamism.  It  is 
in  his  work  and  the  fruit  of  it  that  race-resistance 
to  the  impact  of  the  modern  world  on  the  old 
life  of  the  desert  all  along  the  African  coasts  of 
the  Sahara  finds  its  climax,  its  centre,  and  its 
hope;   elsewhere  it  has  ebbed  slowly  away. 

That  retreat  of  the  old  faith  into  the  desert 
out  of  whose  immensity  it  was  born,  to  die  if 
need  were  in  its  own  cradling  sands,  far  from 
the  pollutions  of  the  modern  and  changed  world, 
excites  the  imagination  and  commands  admira- 
tion. It  might  be  the  episode  of  an  epic,  with 
its  mise  en  scene,  its  protagonist,  its  atmosphere 
of  travel  and  assemblage,  and  the  coloration  of 
its  auxiliary  tribes.  It  has  classical  poetic 
quality.  But  to  the  meditative  mind  the  for- 
tunes of  the  dar  el  harb,  the  nearer  land  of  the 
infidel,  is  more  profoundly  impressive.  It  is  a 
curious   feeling   that   comes    over    one    at    the 


278    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

thought  that  he  is  present  at  the  death  of  a 
race  and  has  before  his  eyes  the  passing  away 
of  a  civiHzation,  and  that  civiHzation  a  culture 
in  its  essential  features  once  common  to  the 
human  family.  That  is  the  scene  here  —  the 
passing  of  the  early  world.  It  is  like  the  pass- 
ing of  the  Indian  world  of  the  wilderness  from 
America  that  our  fathers  saw,  only  in  a  more 
concentrated  scene  and  on  a  more  impressive 
scale  —  the  death  of  an  ancient  mode  of  life  in 
its  home  of  centuries,  full  of  memory  going  back 
to  the  dawn  of  history.  It  is  a  solemn  thing  for 
the  reflective  mind  to  witness,  hard  to  realize 
adequately.  Agriculture  is  gaining  on  the  pas- 
toral state,  supplanting  it;  the  nomad  is  slowly 
becoming  fixed  to  the  soil;  the  towns  increase 
in  number  and  population  and  in  the  variety  of 
their  life;  peace,  order,  security  establish  them- 
selves; capital,  science  arrive  —  companies,  rail- 
ways, telegraphs,  communication,  and  trans- 
portation —  and  the  face  of  life  is  changed ;  in 
a  few  years  there  will  be  no  more  caravans  to 
Tougourt,  to  Tripoli,  to  Ghadames  —  they  will 
be  legends  like  the  mule-trains  and  prairie- 
schooners  of  the  old  emigrant  West. 

The  economic  change  is  most  obvious,  the 
inrush  of  the  mechanical  and  cosmopolitan,  col- 
onization  and   exploitation,   public   works   and 


ON  THE  MAT  279 

private  enterprise,  securing  and  furnishing  the 
territory  for  a  commercial  tillage  and  use.  Is  it 
a  dispossession  of  the  native  from  the  soil  or  is 
it  a  means  by  which  he  may  more  justly  enjoy 
it?  The  people,  in  the  old  days,  lived  in  a  sort 
of  serfage  to  the  nomads  or  the  zaouias.  The 
French  regime  put  an  end  to  desert  feudality, 
but  treated  the  zaouias  with  more  consideration, 
owing  to  their  religious  character.  The  zaouias 
of  Algeria,  notwithstanding  some  counter-cur- 
rents among  them,  generally  accepted  French 
rule  and  co-operated  with  it.  The  result,  never- 
theless, was  largely  a  lessening  of  the  economic 
lordship  of  the  religious  families  at  the  head  of 
these  establishments  and  an  enfranchisement  of 
the  people  from  dependence  upon  them.  The 
zaouias  were  sources  of  great  communal  benefit; 
they  practised  especially  the  Moslem  virtues  of 
alms-giving  and  hospitality;  but  they  also  took 
tithes  and  offerings.  Their  social  importance 
has  diminished;  and,  in  place  of  the  old  half- 
patriarchal,  half-feudal  system,  society  takes  on 
the  modern  structure  of  economic  individualism. 
The  impersonal  administrative  system,  dealing 
with  all  in  an  individual  way,  shivered  the  prim- 
itive economic  collectivity  of  society  at  a  stroke. 
The  modern  world  has  come;  capital,  wages, 
earnings  bring  new  arrangements  and  ways  of 


280    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

living;  the  economic  career  in  a  commercial 
world  is  open  and  safe,  wealth  is  its  prize,  com- 
petence is  possible  for  those  who  can  maintain 
themselves  in  the  way ;  the  new  dispensation  — 
the  future,  has  begun.  Life  is  more  free,  more 
just,  fuller  of  opportunity,  and  it  is  also  more 
difficult;  new  desires,  new  temptations,  and  new 
needs  arise;  the  cost  is  greater.  Civilization 
enforces  the  higher  standard  of  living  even  on 
the  lowliest.  This  is  the  material  fact  most 
powerful  in  transformation.  It  is  a  fact  in- 
herent in  progress. 

The  change  in  manners  is  the  superficial 
expression  of  economic  changes.  There  is  an 
ingathering  into  the  towns,  and,  as  always,  in 
the  first  contacts  of  a  comparatively  primitive 
race  with  a  luxurious  civilization  the  corruption 
of  manners  and  morals  is  patent;  the  weakening 
of  the  old  fibre  of  life  before  the  new  fibre  has 
time  to  form  occasions  a  moral  displacement. 
This  is  most  noticeable  in  the  cities  of  the  coast, 
but  in  some  degree  is  everywhere  to  be  seen. 
There  is,  as  it  were,  a  sifting  of  classes;  the  more 
advanced,  those  who  are  most  sensitive  to  the 
new  and  most  free  and  bold,  begin  an  exodus 
from  the  caje  Maure  to  the  European  restau- 
rant; they  imitate  the  foreigner,  ape  his  ways 
and  take  the  mould  of  his  habits;  the  French 


ON  THE  MAT  281 

vie  tends  to  establish  itself  as  the  ideal,  to  a 
greater  or  less  degree,  among  the  forward  spirits 
and  the  young;  old  haunts  and  customs  are  left 
with  the  lower  class  in  the  cafe  Maure.  The 
chief  support  of  the  general  change,  broadly 
speaking,  is  the  instruction  in  French  schools 
throughout  the  provinces,  which  reduces  the 
old  language  to  a  country  dialect  and  secures  a 
certain  glamour  for  the  new  regime  and  natu- 
ralizes it  as  a  patrie  familiar  from  childhood, 
protective,  and  opening  the  ways  of  life.  A  vital 
point  is  the  extent  to  which,  in  this  change  of 
manners  and  ideals  religion,  the  faith,  is  affected. 
It  appears  to  be  conceded  that  the  practice  of 
the  faith  formally  is  weakened.  It  is  a  faith 
in  which  the  rite  counts  heavily;  the  doing  of 
certain  acts,  as  a  matter  of  observance,  is  a  large 
part  of  its  reality;  but  a  default  in  the  practice 
of  religion  is  never  a  sure  index  to  a  decline  in 
belief.  Belief  habitually  outlives  practice.  It 
is  certain  that  no  Christianizing  takes  place. 
The  White  Brothers,  the  Catholic  missionaries 
of  the  Sahara,  have  long  confined  their  efforts 
to  works  of  humanity  and  simple  helpfulness, 
abandoning  attempts  at  conversion.  If  the  re- 
ligion of  Islam  grows  feebler  in  its  hold,  it  means 
that  free  thought,  scepticism,  and  indifference 
come  in  its  place.     Perhaps  the  fundamental 


282    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

fact  is  that  the  larger  sphere  which  existed  for 
reHgion  in  the  old  days  no  longer  exists.  The 
hermit  is  a  holy  man  largely  because  he  has 
nothing  else  to  do  except  to  be  holy;  and  religion 
fills  the  world  of  Islam  partly,  at  least,  because 
of  the  absence  of  other  elements  in  that  primi- 
tive monotonous  life.  The  modern  world  has 
brought  with  it  into  the  desert  a  great  variety 
of  novel  interests,  a  diversified  life,  stimulating 
curiosity  and  attention  and  often  absorbing 
practical  participation  in  the  new  movement  on 
the  part  of  the  people  in  trade,  enterprise,  amuse- 
ment, information,  news.  It  appears  to  be 
agreed  that  in  the  parts  of  longest  occupancy 
by  the  French  there  has  been  a  relaxation  of 
religious  practice  and  a  softening  of  fanatic 
hatred,  concurrently  with  a  corruption  of  mor- 
als and  degeneracy  of  racial  vigor  where  Euro- 
pean contact  has  been  most  close. 

The  final  question  is  of  the  issue.  The  pop- 
ulation has  greatly  increased  under  French  rule. 
The  development  of  the  country  in  a  material 
way  goes  on  apace.  The  colonial  empire  of 
France  in  Africa  has  a  great  commercial  future. 
Will  the  native  people  in  this  new  economic 
civilization  be  able  to  hold  fast  and  secure  for 
its  own  at  least  a  share  of  the  products  of  this 
great  movement,  or  will  they  be  merely  a  servile 


ON  THE  MAT  283 

race  in  the  service  of  French  proprietors  and 
over-lords,  or  in  a  condition  of  economic  serf- 
age to  vast  accumulations  of  capital,  analogous 
to  that  of  industrial  workers  in  our  capitalistic 
society?  Will  the  moral  decay,  incident  to  the 
change  of  civilizations,  eat  them  up  and  destroy 
them,  as  has  been  the  luck  of  half-barbaric  peo- 
ples elsewhere  in  their  contact  with  the  modern 
world?  In  a  word,  is  the  Berber  people,  for  that 
race  is  here  the  general  stock  and  stamina,  ca- 
pable of  assimilating  this  civilization  and  profit- 
ing by  it?  These  are  questions  of  a  far  future. 
Meanwhile  the  best  opinion  is  sharply  divided 
upon  them.  Historically,  the  Berber  race  has 
shown  assimilative  power  racially  by  its  absorp- 
tion of  the  foreign  bloods  that  have  crossed  it 
from  the  earliest  days:  the  northern  barbarians, 
the  Arabs  of  the  great  invasion,  the  negroes  of 
the  south  have  all  mingled  with  it  freely;  it  has 
also  shown  power  to  take  the  impress  of  foreign 
institutions  from  Roman  and  Christian  days 
to  the  time  of  its  Islamization.  Its  resistant 
power,  its  vitality  as  a  race,  is  scarcely  less  no- 
ticeable. There  are  some  who  look  to  see  real 
assimilation,  even  to  the  extent  of  a  miscegena- 
tion of  the  various  strains  of  foreign  blood;  there 
are  others  who  expect  at  most  only  a  hegemony 
of  civilization  over  a  permanently  inferior  peo- 


284    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

pie;  and  there  are  still  others  who  hope  for  a 
true  assimilation  of  material  civilization,  with  its 
blessings  of  science  and  order,  but  see  an  impass- 
able abyss  between  the  old  European  and  the 
soul  of  the  desert,  inscrutable,  mysterious,  alien, 
which  remains  immutable  in  the  Berber  race. 


Ill 

The  old  life  of  the  desert  is  passing  away;  the 
fact  is  written  on  the  landscape,  on  the  faces  of 
the  people  and  in  their  hearts.  It  was  as  full 
of  miseries  as  of  grandeurs;  and  its  disappear- 
ance is  for  good.  What  was  admirable  in  it 
was  the  endurance  of  the  human  heart  in  the 
sterile  places,  and  the  mysterious  flowering  from 
it,  amid  this  desolation,  of  a  great  faith.  The 
death  of  a  religion,  no  more  than  the  decay  of 
other  institutions,  should  perplex  or  disturb;  all 
these  alike  are  the  work  of  the  soul,  and  when 
the  soul  leaves  them  they  perish;  and  as  in  the 
revolutions  the  daily  life  of  men  goes  on,  so  in 
the  religious  changes  of  organization  and  dogma 
the  spiritual  life  of  the  soul  continues.  The  soul 
can  no  more  be  without  religion  than  the  body 
without  life.  The  sense  of  the  mystery  of  its 
own  being  abides  in  the  soul,  in  however  half- 
conscious  or  imperfect  forms,  implanted  in  its 


ON  THE  MAT  285 

vital  and  animating  principle,  and  shares  with 
shaping  power  in  its  thoughts,  emotions,  and 
will,  and  exhales  the  atmosphere  in  which  it 
realizes  its  spiritual  life;  it  is  here  that  religion, 
in  the  external  sense  of  worship  and  dogma,  has 
its  source.  The  desert  soul  may  cast  the  old  life 
like  a  garment  —  faith  and  all;  but  under  these 
old  skies  and  in  these  supreme  horizons  it  can- 
not change  its  nature,  which  is,  in  a  sense,  the 
human  form  of  the  desert.  The  flower  of  faith 
will  grow  here,  and  blossom  in  the  wild,  in  the 
future  as  in  the  past,  for  the  desert  is  a  spiritual 
place;  and  in  this  austere  and  infinite  air  faith 
will  continue  to  be  a  religion  of  the  desert  truly, 
with  the  least  of  the  corporeal  in  its  manifesta- 
tion and  idea,  with  the  least  of  the  defined  in 
creed  and  localized  in  place;  for  the  spiritual, 
the  universal,  the  vague  are  the  intuitions  and 
language  of  the  desert;  there  religion  is  less  a 
thought  than  a  feeling,  less  a  prayer  than  a 
mood. 

I  closed  my  meditations  in  such  thoughts  as 
these,  instinctively  seeking,  amid  so  much  that 
was  mortal,  the  undj^ing,  in  the  decadent  the 
permanent,  in  the  transitory  the  eternal. 


286    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


IV 


The  stars  were  coming  out  in  the  sky;  the 
coolness  of  the  night  was  already  in  the  air. 
The  old  Arab  had  long  ago  departed;  the  kif- 
smoking  j^outh  were  gone.  I  was  alone  under  the 
vine  trellis,  with  the  dark  lines  of  the  palm  grove 
before  me  in  the  falling  night.  The  proprietor, 
a  mild-faced  and  gentle-mannered  old  Arab, 
came,  as  I  rose  to  go,  with  a  few  pleasant  words, 
and  gave  me  a  small  branch  of  orange-flowers 
and  a  spray  of  the  white  flower  of  the  palm. 
''C'est  le  male  J'  he  said  with  a  smile.  And  as  I 
rode  home  over  the  silent  desert,  and,  crossing 
the  bed  of  the  oued,  looked  back  on  the  mountain 
wall  and  swept  with  my  gaze  the  great,  dark 
waste  under  the  stars,  I  found  myself  repeating 
his  words  —  *'C'est  le  male.'* 


DJERBA 


VII 

DJERBA 


IT  was  a  coast-line  hardly  raised  above  the 
sea.  On  that  low  horizon  only  a  few  rare 
palms  silhouetted  the  far  verge  above  the 
surf.  The  pale-blue  flood  of  the  sea,  lifting 
measurelessly  on  and  on  in  the  shining  levels  of 
fair  weather;  the  thin,  white,  uneasy  line  wrin- 
kling down  the  league-long  spits  of  sand;  the 
slender  jets  of  the  tufted  palms  etching  the 
vacant  azure  vague  —  there  was  nothing  more, 
hour  after  hour.  And  "in  the  afternoon  we 
came  unto  a  land"  —  but  that  would  be  to  antici- 
pate. As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  did  not  come  to 
any  land  at  all.  We  hove  to,  some  three  or  four 
miles  out  in  the  oflfing,  and  a  few  weather-wise 
boats  bobbed  about  like  corks  on  the  rollers, 
with  many  a  careening  sweep  hither  and  thither. 
I  climbed  down  into  one  of  them,  and  when  I  had 
recovered  my  balance  found  myself  and  my  lug- 
gage in  the  possession  of  a  Berber  boatman  and 

289 


290    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

his  "sailor-lad";  but  this  was  an  entirely  new 
edition  of  the  sailor  lad,  bound  in  an  earth-brown 
burnoose  —  an  earnest-faced  small  boy,  with 
an  unfathomable  seriousness,  and  devout  in 
every  motion,  like  a  young  acolyte,  a  fresh  and 
unique  incarnation  of  Cupid  in  bonds,  naive, 
with  a  sweet  smile,  eyes  tres  douce,  and  such  a 
mastery  of  his  tasks  in  years  still  short  of  the 
glorious  teens !  What  a  hand  he  had  for  a  rope ! 
and  how  he  got  about  with  his  clothes!  The 
other  was  a  life-worn  man,  tres  triste  in  the  face 
and  in  motion.  Father  and  son,  and  of  the  old 
race  of  the  sea  they  were,  a  strange  new  type, 
and  with  I  know  not  what  added  of  life  sadness, 
of  dour  reality. 

We  were  soon  under  way,  a  leaning  boat  on 
broad-bosomed  waters,  and  with  that  palm-set 
orange  strip  of  sky  to  lead  us  on.  I  had  not 
enjoyed  for  years  such  a  glorious  sail.  Under  a 
crisp  west  wind  we  rode  the  ridged  waves  with 
spurts  of  spray;  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  splen- 
did reach  and  magnificent  arch  of  that  world  of 
the  void;  and  we  drove  through  the  purple- 
black  sea  furrows  shot  with  dying  lights.  The 
steamer  was  already  melting  with  the  horizon 
behind.  I  seemed  to  have  dropped  out  of  the 
world,  as  if  I  had  been  marooned.  I  was  free 
of  it;  it  had  all  lapsed  away;  it  had  gone  down. 


DJERBA  291 

The  stretch  of  the  sea  was  immense.  The 
bracing  wind  was  as  heady  as  wine.  "Fresh 
fields  and  pastures  new,"  I  bethought  myself, 
looking  to  the  low  rim  of  land  that  hardly 
divided  sea  from  sky,  and  wondered  if  I  should 
find  fields  of  the  yellow  lotus  there.  That  mar- 
gin was  still  distant,  and  I  lay  back  in  the  stern 
half  dreaming,  enjoying  the  wet  tingle  of  the 
spray  on  my  face,  as  we  made  landward  by  long 
tacks,  and  the  worn  old  man  and  the  demure 
boy  with  their  eyes  on  wind  and  wave  sat  silent. 
The  boat  grated  against  the  pier.  After  a  short 
walk  I  was  in  a  small  hotel,  with  a  few  rooms 
round  an  inner  court,  a  veranda  overlooking  it 
from  above,  climbing  roses,  a  pleasant  French 
hostess,  and  no  other  guests. 

It  was  the  isle  of  Djerba.  I  had  been  drawn 
here  because  tradition  places  on  the  island  the 
home  of  the  lotus-eaters,  of  whom  Ulysses  long 
ago  told  a  sea  tale.  This  voyage  was  to  be  a 
hunting  of  the  lotus.  I  have  had  an  appetite 
for  it  since  boyhood.  It  is  my  predestined  food; 
but  destiny  has  a  remarkable  way  of  escaping 
me.  I  have  observed  the  fact  on  several  occa- 
sions. No  "branches  of  that  enchanted  stem" 
had  met  me  on  the  pier,  nor  was  there  any 
"mild-eyed,  melancholy"  person  about,  whom 
the    most   fatuous    could    ever    mistake    for    a 


292    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

strayed  reveller.  Things  often  turn  out  in  an 
unexpected  way;  but  I  had  to  admit  there  was 
an  uncommon  disparity  between  my  youthful 
vision  of  the  lotus  land  and  what  I  saw.  Where 
were  the  "three  mountain-peaks,"  and  the 
slender,  high  cascades  of  "downward  smoke,'* 
and  the  "gleaming  river,"  to  say  nothing  of  its 
Eden  background?  There  was  not  a  mountain 
anywhere  in  sight,  not  a  hill,  not  a  rise  of 
ground.  "A  land  of  streams"  —  there  was  not 
a  brook,  let  alone  a  river,  not  a  single  stream  of 
any  sort  on  the  whole  island,  which  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  flat  mainland.  From  the  house- 
top I  looked  on  an  Arab  town  of  no  great  extent, 
with  a  French  core,  scantily  embowered  with 
straggling  trees,  and  the  view  was  unbroken, 
landward  or  seaward,  the  horizon  round.  I  sus- 
pect I  shall  find  that  mistily  draped  Tenny- 
sonian  valley,  with  its  long-drawn  scene,  in  the 
Pyrenees  some  day,  near  a  castle  in  Spain.  It 
was  not  here.  My  French  hostess  had  never 
heard  of  the  lotus. 


II 

The  next  morning  was  bright  and  fair,  and 
I  went  out  to  explore  the  land  southward,  a 
stretch  of  about  twenty  kilometres  to  the  strait 


DJERBA  293 

which  divides  the  island  from  the  mainland. 
We  were  soon  out  of  the  town  and  almost  at 
once  in  the  fields.  The  road,  extremelj^  dry  and 
sandy,  wound  over  a  very  open  country  of  scat- 
tered farms,  with  lines  and  groups  of  palm  and 
olive,  besides  other  trees,  on  slightly  rolling, 
bosomy  slopes  with  long  and  gradual  variations 
of  level.  It  was  a  pleasant  scene  in  the  warm 
April  air  of  sleepy  peace  and  solitary  silence, 
unbroken  country  quiet.  One  characteristic  of 
the  land  was  soon  evident.  The  population, 
which  is  upward  of  forty  thousand  for  the  whole 
island  and  is  of  the  pure  Berber  stock  for  the 
most  part,  has  never  gathered  into  towns  and 
villages.  The  few  central  points  are  mere  mar- 
ket-places for  distribution  and  supply ;  the  people 
live  scattered  on  farms  in  their  own  demesnes. 
There  are  singular  farmsteads,  built  for  defence, 
actually  fortified;  a  wall,  enclosing  a  space  large 
enough  for  cattle  and  whatever  must  be  under 
cover  in  case  of  attack,  surrounds  the  whole, 
with  towers  at  the  four  corners.  These  farm- 
steads are  near  enough  for  mutual  aid;  and  with 
only  this  system  of  protection  the  inhabitants  of 
the  island  withstood  the  random  nomad  forays 
from  the  mainland  and  the  pirate  descents  from 
the  sea  for  centuries. 

The  island  is  really  the  edge  of  the  desert 


294    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

where  it  makes  down  to  the  Mediterranean.  It 
is,  in  effect,  a  farming  oasis  which  has  been  re- 
claimed from  the  sands  by  its  own  people 
through  the  use  of  the  underground  waters.  It 
is  in  a  condition  of  varied  cultivation  throughout, 
but  is  more  fertile  in  some  parts  than  in  others; 
for,  if  attention  is  relaxed,  it  reverts  at  once  to 
the  sterile,  sandy  state.  A  peculiar  people  in- 
habits it.  They  are  dissident  Mohammedans, 
and  akin  in  their  heresy  to  the  Mzabites  of 
the  Sahara,  whose  fantasia  I  saw,  and  who  have 
made  the  oases  to  the  west  and  southwest  of 
Tougourt  centres  of  prosperity,  besides  being 
a  vigorous  nomad  race  of  merchants  through  all 
North  Africa.  The  sect  would  be  called  Uni- 
tarians among  us,  because  they  carry  their  in- 
sistence on  "the  only  God"  so  far  as  to  deny 
divine  authority  to  the  prophets,  including  Mo- 
hammed. They  have  strange  bits  of  mosques, 
diminutive  little  things,  with  a  square  mina- 
aret  topped  with  a  curious  conical  stone,  and 
these  are  numerously  scattered  here  over  the 
whole  island.  They  are  also  the  Puritans  of 
the  Moslem  world,  strict  in  their  manners, 
severe  even,  and  very  frugal.  It  is  to  this  folk 
that  the  island  owes  its  state  of  culture;  they 
have  created  it  as  a  habitable  tract;  nor  do  they 
confine  their  toil  to  the  land.     They  weave  ex- 


DJERBA  295 

cellent  white  burnooses  of  their  wool,  and  bright, 
striped  blankets,  and  mould  pretty  pottery;  they 
engage  in  the  fisheries;  and  with  their  nomad 
instincts  they  often  seek  occupation  and  trade 
abroad,  like  the  Mzabites,  who  are  credited  with 
a  Quaker-like  prosperity  in  worldly  affairs. 
This  community,  distributed  broadly  without 
towns  in  their  own  small  domains,  might  seem 
a  dream  of  the  primitive  —  a  frugal  folk  on  a 
sterile  land,  in  their  rural  Paradise  of  small 
economies  and  simple  manners,  leading  unevent- 
ful lives  of  humble  industry,  far  from  the  great 
world. 

It  was  a  curious  country  to  look  at  —  not 
rich,  no  bottom-lands,  or  waving  acres,  or  luxury 
and  exuberance  of  vegetation  rushing  forth; 
the  nakedness  of  the  land  showed  through. 
But  the  face  of  the  country  had  lines  of  verdure 
and  spots  of  spring-time  and  greening  reaches 
over  the  dry  acclivities ;  the  mild  warmth  of  the 
sun  cheered  everything  to  its  brightest;  there 
were  plotted  fields  here  and  there,  and  the  palms 
gave  beauty  to  the  sky  and  the  olives  gave 
character  to  the  earth.  There  were  some  splen- 
did olive-trees,  old,  hoary  trunks,  knobbed  with 
age  and  contorted  by  ocean  gales;  massive  co- 
lumnar stems  of  incredible  girth  that  lifted  from 
near  the  ground  immense  rounds  of  heavy  foli- 


296    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

age  impenetrably  dark;  and  others,  mere  shells 
and  ruins  of  time,  that  still  shot  green  shoots 
from  their  tops  to  the  bright  wave  of  the  sun. 
It  was  the  scene  of  an  old  world;  and  there  was 
something  ancient  and  venerable  to  my  eyes  in 
the  landscape  that  had  seen  so  little  change  for 
centuries  and  yet  had  known  human  life,  hum- 
ble generations,  for  so  long.  Far  away,  beyond 
sloping  breadths  of  dark,  rough  herbage  whose 
sparse  bunches  hummocked  the  dry  soil,  glit- 
tered a  low  mass  of  white  walls  that  slowly  de- 
fined itself  as  a  farmstead  with  orchards  about; 
it  had  a  rude,  mediaeval  look  in  its  exterior,  and 
many  offices,  apparently,  suggesting  somewhat 
an  old  manor.  Cattle  stood  round  it  lazily,  and 
a  couple  of  men  were  at  work  in  the  cluttered 
yard.  On  another  ridge  was  one  of  those  strange 
mosques,  but  larger  and  more  important  than 
usual,  perhaps  the  memorial  of  some  island 
saint.  The  blue  sky  shone  through  the  window 
of  the  cupola  of  the  minaret,  with  its  conical 
stone  at  the  top;  on  one  side  the  olive-trees 
leaned  away  from  it  by  twos  and  threes,  and 
on  the  other  high  palms  lifted  their  feathery 
tops,  inclined  at  different  angles,  tall,  slender, 
drooping  stems  with  very  small  tufts.  It  was 
a  very  lonely  and  peaceful  sight  in  that  silent 
country,  stretching  far  around.     We  met  hardly 


DJERBA  297 

any  one  on  the  road  except,  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
rare  houses,  groups  who  evidently  belonged  on 
the  place.  The  houses  were  not  the  least  curi- 
ous feature  of  the  landscape.  They  were  roofed 
with  little  domes,  as  is  usual  on  the  island. 
This  gave  a  certain  solemnity  to  the  scene  — 
the  grave  aspect  of  the  East.  So  we  went  on 
in  the  calm,  warm  day,  mile  after  mile,  undulat- 
ing over  the  country,  but  with  no  real  change 
of  level,  with  glimpses  of  the  old  farms,  the 
sharp-pinnacled,  square  minarets  of  the  solemn 
mosques,  the  white  domes,  feathery  palms,  and 
rolling  olives,  through  the  monotony  of  a  land 
where  there  was  truly  a  great  peace. 

We  reached  Ajim,  the  southernmost  point  of 
the  island,  in  the  light  of  a  blazing  noon  that 
bit  every  line  of  black  shadow  with  a  brilliant 
edge.  Ajim  was  only  a  short,  tumble-down 
street.  The  one-story  buildings  of  sun-dried 
mud  on  either  side  presented  a  low,  blank  wall, 
continuous  and  irregular,  broken  by  a  succession 
of  high-arched  or  elongated  oblong  openings, 
closed  by  rough  boards.  I  think  I  never  saw  so 
poor  a  hamlet.  There  was  a  general  look  of 
shabby  dilapidation,  but  this  w^as  due  to  the 
original  poverty  of  the  materials  and  the  hum- 
bleness of  the  effort.  There  was  no  appearance 
of  abandonment.     On  the  contrary,  there  was 


298    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

building  going  on  and  the  street  was  lively. 
I  had  much  difficulty  in  keeping  out  of  the  way 
of  donkeys  and  camels  and  porters,  as  I  walked 
to  the  upper  end  and  looked  in  at  the  fondouk 
which  was  thronged  with  beasts  and  men.  It 
was  a  characteristic  scene  as  I  turned  back,  for 
the  walk  was  only  of  three  or  four  minutes. 
The  little  vista  was  dominated  at  the  lower  end 
by  the  rising  buildings,  and  the  poor  street  lay 
below,  half  in  the  sunlight,  with  its  sharp  band 
of  inky  shadow  on  the  southern  side.  The 
people  were  scattered  from  end  to  end,  mostly 
in  earth-brown,  flowing  garments,  with  here  and 
there  a  snowy  burnoose  of  some  more  important 
citizen;  and  there  were  caps  and  turbans  of  all 
sorts,  and  a  dash  of  faded  blue  or  green  now  and 
then  showed  in  the  sunshine;  but  the  scene  was 
sober-hued,  white  and  black  and  brown  for  the 
most  part,  under  the  dazzling  blue  in  the  fresh 
sea  air.  The  open  doors  of  the  street,  as  I 
passed  along,  let  a  dim  light  into  the  interior 
gloom  of  what  seemed  places  for  storage,  cavern- 
ous and  dark;  and  further  on  there  were  a  few 
shops  and  cafes,  a  smith,  a  rope-maker.  There 
were  all  kinds  of  ropes;  and  it  gradually  came 
on  me  that  this  was  really  a  fishing  village  and 
a  place  for  sailormen,  a  port.  It  was  a  little 
unlike  anything  I  had  elsewhere  seen.     I  went 


DJERBA  299 

through  the  rope-maker's  shop;  such  places  al- 
ways call  me  with  their  savor  of  the  sea  and 
its  tasks.  I  had  a  good  lunch  at  a  cafe;  one  can 
always  get  food  in  the  most  out-of-the-way 
places,  if  he  has  any  knack  for  travelling.  I  re- 
member only  the  cup  of  coffee  at  the  end,  with 
some  of  those  strange-colored  liquids,  exotic 
drinks  that  one  finds  at  the  ends  of  the  world, 
bright,  tonic,  exhilarating;  and  over  one  of 
these  I  sat  watching  the  little  life  of  the  street, 
a  continual  passing  of  men  and  boys  and  burdens, 
with  dialogues  and  incidents,  and  a  not  infre- 
quent disposition  to  take  the  stranger  into  con- 
fidence wuth  looks  and  nods  and  smiles  of  intel- 
ligence. It  was  a  pleasant  and  picturesque  hour 
in  the  foreign  sun,  and  ended  happily;  and  I 
strolled  down  to  the  pier,  which  lies  at  a  little 
distance  from  the  village  beyond  a  broad,  open 
ground. 

It  was  a  fine  pier  and  made  out  very  far  into 
the  shallow  waters.  The  mainland  lay  a  mile 
or  two  away  and  was  as  desert  a  strand  as  I 
ever  looked  on,  flat,  bleak,  uninhabited.  The 
level  waters  stretched  far  away  on  either  hand, 
blue  and  shining,  and  a  fresh  breeze  sent  the 
lively  waves  to  chafe  angrily  against  the  pier. 
The  near  scene  was  quietly  interesting.  Small 
vessels  were  anchored  at  a  little  distance,  and 


300    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

a  hull  seemed  to  be  building  or  undergoing  re- 
pairs near  the  shore,  where  there  was  a  group 
with  animals.  Close  to  the  pier  leaned  a  tangle 
of  slanting  masts  and  ropes,  the  Arab  fleet  of 
sponge-fishers,  not  so  numerous  as  the  Greek 
fleet  I  had  seen  at  Sfax,  but  similar  in  charac- 
ter and  making  a  pretty  marine  view.  Not  far 
from  it  an  Arab  was  sifting  grain  from  a  great 
heap  by  a  moored  vessel  on  the  other  side,  and 
a  camel  was  unloading.  There  were  several 
walking  figures  on  the  pier,  which  was  very  long 
and  narrow,  and  if  one  of  them  stood  still  he 
looked,  in  the  strict  folds  of  his  Arab  dress,  like 
a  statue  on  a  bridge,  relieved  on  the  sky  and  the 
sea  with  perfectly  defined  lines.  There  was  one 
group,  however,  that  centred  my  attention  —  a 
true  Bedouin  scene.  It  was  a  family  that  had 
come  over  on  some  sort  of  a  ferry  from  the  other 
side.  The  man  was  unloading  their  belongings 
from  the  boat  and  piling  them  up  on  the  pier, 
where  a  donkey  was  waiting  to  be  loaded  with 
them.  On  the  heap  sat  two  women,  who  looked 
like  mother  and  daughter.  The  elder  arrested 
the  eye  at  once  by  her  splendid  physique  and 
her  dress.  Her  large  figure  sat  in  perfect  re- 
pose on  the  coarse  bagging,  and  she  was  clad 
with  desert  luxury.  Heavy  robes  drooped  vo- 
luminous folds  about  her,  from  which  her  dark- 


DJERBA  301 

skinned  head  and  shoulders,  deep  golden  brown, 
freely  emerged.  Her  arms  were  bare,  showing 
the  deep  armpits  and  half  the  full  breasts;  her 
hair  was  raven-black,  the  eyes  large  and  solemn, 
the  features  prominent.  She  was  covered  with 
desert  ornaments;  silver  rings  hooped  her  ears, 
strings  of  beads  hung  over  a  wide  brooch  on  her 
bosom,  bracelets  enclosed  her  arms;  but  what 
most  fascinated  my  eyes  was  two  immense 
silver  crescents,  almost  moon-size,  that  hung  by 
either  breast.  She  was  a  splendid  figure  there 
under  the  open  sky  by  the  edge  of  the  desert  — 
a  true  mother  of  Ishmael.  I  shall  never  forget 
that  unregarding  pose  —  a  type  of  the  ages. 
They  told  me  she  was  a  rich  Bedouin  woman. 
I  lingered  awhile  among  the  boats,  and  when  I 
came  away  she  was  still  sitting  there  immovable. 
We  drove  back,  as  the  afternoon  wore  on, 
by  a  somewhat  different  route,  taking  a  branch- 
ing and  rougher  road;  but  there  was  no  real 
change  in  the  scene.  It  was  a  sterile  land,  much 
mixed  with  sand,  which  the  labor  of  man  re- 
claimed with  difiiculty.  The  other  side  of  the 
island  is  said  to  be  more  fertile,  and  rich  in 
gardens.  It  was  the  same  very  open  country 
all  the  way,  and  league  after  league  we  left  it 
behind  us,  rare  farms  and  lonely  mosques  and 
dreamy   domes   sparsely   scattered   over   broad 


302    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

areas  of  slightly  broken  land,  wells,  and  little 
olive  groves  like  apple  orchards,  fringes  of  palms 
on  the  dying  orange  sky,  tracts  of  loose  sand, 
speared  over  with  tufted  hummocks,  until  with 
the  starlight  we  came  back  to  the  pleasant  hotel 
with  the  inner  courtyard  and  the  climbing  yel- 
low roses. 


Ill 

I  HAD  never  made  a  Jewish  pilgrimage.  The 
opportunities  for  one  are  rare,  for  the  Jews  are 
not  a  pilgrim  people.  There  is  on  the  island, 
however,  a  place  which  is  described  as  a  point 
of  their  pious  journeying  for  centuries,  and 
thither  I  repaired.  It  is  the  synagogue  at  Hara- 
Srira,  a  village  of  seven  hundred  inhabitants, 
which,  with  a  neighboring  and  larger  village, 
concentrates  the  Jewish  population  of  the  is- 
land in  their  segregated  life.  It  was  only  a 
few  kilometres  away,  and  I  reached  it  by  a 
more  settled  and  suburban  road  than  that  to 
Ajim.  The  little  town  was  a  picturesque 
sight,  gathered  none  too  closely  about  the  syn- 
agogue, which  was  the  principal  building.  The 
sexton  and  his  son,  grave  persons  in  Arab  cos- 
tume, took  charge  of  me  with  polite  attention, 
and  after  the  boy  had  assisted  me  to  take  off 


DJERBA  303 

my  shoes  I  was  ushered  into  the  little  temple. 
It  was  divided  into  a  series  of  compartments, 
and  although  none  of  the  rooms  was  large,  the 
general  effect  was  impressive.  I  was  struck  by 
the  richness  of  the  interior,  and  its  look  of 
cleanliness  and  finish,  for  my  eyes  had  been 
long  unaccustomed  to  such  a  scene;  the  bright 
tiles,  the  lights,  the  walls,  all  the  furnishings 
seemed  quite  new  and  modern,  European  in 
fact,  as  if  I  had  stepped  back  at  once  into  the 
familiar  world;  there  was  nothing  barren  or 
austere,  nothing  to  suggest  the  neighborhood 
of  the  desert  and  its  ways.  It  was  the  shrine 
of  an  alien  religion,  and  wore  the  aspect  of  civ- 
ilization and  a  better-provided  world,  a  differ- 
ent economic  type,  not  that  of  the  gray  old 
mosques  in  lonely  places  on  the  sandy  downs. 
The  priest  in  his  vestments,  a  slight,  middle- 
aged  man,  a  sacred  if  not  a  stately  figure,  came 
to  welcome  me,  and  pointing  out  various  de- 
tails led  the  way  through  the  half-darkness  of 
the  subdued  light  to  a  small  chapel-like  room 
where  were  the  treasures  that  I  had  come  to 
see. 

They  were  books  of  the  old  Law  and  ancient 
writings  that  had  found  an  asylum  in  the  sands. 
I  was  glad  to  be  where  the  object  of  pilgrim- 
age was  a  Book.     These  venerated   copies  of 


304    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

sacred  writings,  more  than  libraries,  symbolize 
to  me  the  glory  of  letters;  they  are  the  founts 
of  civilizations.  I  have  seldom  seen  a  more 
beautiful  antique  manuscript,  or  one  so  sol- 
emnly impressive,  as  the  massive  volume  he 
showed  me,  their  chief  treasure,  which,  I  think, 
he  said  dated  from  the  eleventh  century.  It 
recalled  lovely  copies  of  the  Koran  that  I  have 
sometimes  found  in  the  mosques  of  the  Levant. 
I  wished  he  would  read  out  of  it  to  me,  as  the 
young  taleb  at  Kairouan  had  read  the  Koran 
to  me  by  the  fading  evening  light  in  the  dark- 
browed  court  of  the  Mosque  of  the  Barber,  nigh 
the  little  stone  cells  of  the  students,  after  I  had 
seen,  above,  the  banner-hung  tomb  of  the  com- 
panion of  the  Prophet  in  its  solemn  desert  state; 
the  lean  Arab  stood,  holding  the  book  in  his 
hands,  with  his  face  lighted  up,  intoning  the 
verses,  and  a  few  others  listening  reverently 
made  the  group.  I  shall  never  forget  th-e 
music  of  that  unknown  tongue,  like  the  sound 
of  winds  in  the  forest  or  waves  on  the  shore. 
But  I  did  not  like  to  ask  the  priest  to  read. 
There  were  other  manuscripts,  perhaps  a  score 
in  all,  and  I  spent  a  half-hour  over  them.  It 
was  pleasant  to  be  in  touch  with  such  things 
once  more;  for,  excepting  the  wide  volume  that 
I  saw  the  seated  Jew  reading  in  the  street  of 


DJERBA  305 

Tougourt,  I  did  not  remember  having  seen  a 
book  in  the  desert.  The  priest  was  proud  of 
these  treasures,  and  the  boy  also  who  stood  by 
watching  as  I  turned  the  leaves;  scriptures  and 
learning  of  long  ago,  that  had  survived  in  this  re- 
mote niche,  cared  for  and  venerated  like  the  gos- 
pels of  some  inaccessible  Coptic  monastery,  they 
were  worthy  of  a  scholar's  pilgrimage  and  respect. 
As  I  came  out  into  the  open  I  noticed  two 
lines  of  figures  coming  across  country  in  oppo- 
site directions  like  people  returning  from  church. 
They  were  Mohammedans  and  Jews,  each  walk- 
ing from  their  respective  cemeteries  which  lay 
not  far  away.  I  thought  it  was  a  typical  and 
happy  scene  of  two  religions  dwelling  together 
in  unity  and  peace.  The  general  appearance 
of  the  people  was  much  the  same,  humbly  pros- 
perous and  contented,  and  they  were  dressed 
alike.  The  Jews  here  are  completely  Arabized, 
except  in  the  point  of  their  religion,  and  it  was 
interesting  to  observe  how  much  they  had  be- 
come assimilated  to  the  soil.  The  women  es- 
pecially looked  to  me  like  Bedouin  women,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  scrutinize  their  features  to  de- 
tect their  race;  but  no  burnoose  nor  haik  can 
disguise  the  superior  vitality  and  intelligence  of 
the  Jews.  On  my  return  I  stopped  to  stroll 
through  the  market,  and  there  they  w^ere  much 


306    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

to  be  seen.  It  was  an  abundant  market  with 
the  usual  heaps  and  collections  on  the  ground  — 
grains,  vegetables,  utensils,  and  special  quar- 
ters for  wool,  meat,  and  fish.  It  was  a  lively 
and  thronged  scene.  An  auction  of  donkeys 
and  camels  was  going  on  in  one  place.  My 
eyes  were  especially  attracted  by  the  piles  of 
sheepskins  and  wool,  and  the  men  and  boys 
lying  lazily  on  them  waiting  for  custom,  their 
dark  faces  and  bodies  oddly  relieved  and  pic- 
turesque on  the  wool.  There  were  heaps  of 
black  sponges,  too;  and  I  noticed  a  curious 
white  kilted  costume  which  I  had  not  seen  on 
these  shores,  lending  a  new  element  to  the 
crowd.  Here,  too,  wandering  about,  I  experi- 
enced the  smallness  of  the  world  anew;  for  I 
fell  in  with  some  travelling  merchants  who  had 
come  to  buy  burnooses  and  blankets  of  Djerba, 
and  who  remembered  me  from  Tunis;  they 
were  plainly  pleased  to  find  me  in  such  a  re- 
mote corner  of  their  own  country.  I  myself 
became  sufficiently  imbued  with  the  spirit  of 
the  place  to  buy  a  few  dates  and  figs,  and  more 
particularly  some  dried  orange-blossoms,  which 
were  sold  by  the  pound.  I  had  never  seen  such 
a  thing  in  Italy,  and  it  gave  me  a  lively  idea 
of  the  orange  gardens  to  the  east  of  the  island 
which  were  said  to  be  so  luxuriant. 


DJERBA  307 

As  the  day  wore  idly  on,  I  explored  the  town, 
Houmt-Souk,  for  I  believe  I  have  not  yet  named 
it,  which  has  fine,  broad,  curving  streets  and 
large,  open  places,  a  mosque  with  many  domes 
and  a  high,  square  minaret,  a  tall  artesian  well, 
and  a  public  garden  where  the  French  govern- 
ment experiments  with  plants  and  trees.  The 
proprietor  of  my  hotel  was  the  gardener,  and 
took  me  about  and  told  me  stories  of  his  garden, 
but  the  spring  was  not  far  enough  advanced  for 
the  soil  to  tell  the  same  tale  of  its  luxuriance 
and  rarity.  I  had  to  content  myself  with  see- 
ing various  shrubs  and  exotic  trees.  Then  I 
wandered  down  to  the  beach,  like  all  ocean 
beaches,  with  heavy,  loose  sand  and  a  consider- 
able tide,  the  broad  view,  sights  of  the  sea,  and 
a  ruined  Spanish  fortress;  but  I  went  especially 
to  see  the  spot  where  stood  for  centuries  the 
great  mound  of  Christian  bones.  Skull  Fort  they 
called  it,  which  the  pirate  Dragut  raised  after 
the  victory  in  which  he  broke  the  Spanish  fleet 
in  this  offing,  in  1560,  taking  five  thousand 
prisoners  and  massacring  the  garrison.  I  sup- 
pose he  massacred  the  prisoners,  too;  and  here 
the  ghastly  memorial  of  his  victory  stood  nigh 
the  beach,  till  in  recent  years  the  bones  were 
removed  and  buried  in  the  Catholic  cemetery. 
Before  that,  Norman  raiders  and  Sicilians,  when 
they  harried  all  these  coasts,  had  temporarily 


308    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

held  possession  in  the  Middle  Ages;  and  all  over 
the  island  are  Roman  ruins,  decayed  causeways, 
baths,  temples,  the  subsoil  of  all  the  Mediter- 
ranean world.  But  nothing  now  stands  out  in 
the  historic  memory  of  the  old  lotus  land  except 
Dragut's  grim  mound. 


IV 

I  HAD  not  forgotten  the  hunting  of  the  lotus, 
but  it  was  now  more  clearly  defined  as  a  search 
for  the  jujubier,  which  is  identified  with  the 
ancient  plant.  Persistent  inquiry  revealed  the 
probability  of  a  lonely  specimen  some  five 
miles  off  in  the  country.  We  set  off  by  a  new 
route  to  the  southeast,  and  away  from  the 
more  travelled  roads.  The  track  was  rough, 
and  the  horses  toiled  through  heavy  sands.  The 
farm  we  were  seeking  was  not  on  the  road,  and 
we  left  the  carriage  standing  and  tramped  for 
about  a  mile  or  more  across  ploughed  fields, 
little  ditches,  and  stretches  of  white  sand  more 
than  ankle-deep,  till,  asking  our  way  of  the  rare 
people  in  the  fields,  we  finally  found  the  house 
we  sought.  It  was  a  simple  building  of  one 
story,  with  white  walls  about  it,  and  the  little 
dome  at  one  end;  a  rustic  garden  of  humble 
cottage  flowers  was  before  it,  bright  with  spring 
blossoms,  and  here  my  guide  introduced  mc  to 


DJERBA  309 

the  proprietor,  a  thin  old  man  with  a  boyish 
figure,  keen  blue  eyes,  and  great  alacrity  in  his 
motions.  He  led  me  in  through  the  courtyard, 
which  was  of  considerable  size,  to  the  house, 
which  consisted  of  one  very  large  room,  with 
smaller  apartments  at  the  further  end  under  the 
dome.  The  room  was  a  surprise  to  me;  it  was 
a  marine  room,  all  the  walls  being  loosely  cov- 
ered with  sailor  objects.  The  old  man  had  fol- 
lowed the  sea  all  his  life,  and  served  many  years 
in  the  French  navy;  now,  with  his  pension,  he 
had  found  his  snug  harbor  in  this  remote  peace- 
ful island  as  a  colonist.  It  was  an  ideal  place 
for  a  sailor's  retirement,  with  its  flowers  at  the 
door,  its  profound  country  peace,  and  its  relics 
of  the  sea.  It  had  a  Crusoe  look,  and  so  did 
the  old  man;  and  I  gathered  heart,  thinking 
that  here  at  least  was  a  mariner,  like  the  com- 
panions of  Ulysses,  who  had  found  the  port  and 
elected  to  remain  in  the  land.  There  were 
bones  of  fishes  on  the  walls,  implements  from 
the  South  Sea  islands,  colored  prints  tacked  all 
about,  the  curious  things  that  sailors  make, 
African  oddities,  a  gun  hung  over  the  mantel, 
barbaric  spears  in  corners;  and  the  little  collec- 
tion was  displayed  and  arranged  with  that  neat- 
ness and  order,  almost  pattern-like,  w^hich  is  a 
sailor  instinct. 


310    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

Yes,  there  was  a  jujubier  in  the  neighborhood. 
The  old  man,  who  had  an  alert,  breezy  way 
about  him  and  was  full  of  vigor,  seemed  to  won- 
der that  I  had  come  to  see  it,  but  said  nothing; 
he  was  for  the  time  more  intent  on  rites  of  hos- 
pitality, and  I  went  about  examining  the  curi- 
osities. His  wife  and  a  little  girl  came  in  with 
a  great  pitcher  and  tall  glasses  and  set  them  down 
before  us,  and  the  old  man  poured  out  generous 
draughts  of  bright-brown  cider.  I  smiled  to 
think  into  what  a  vintage  my  dreamed-of  juice 
of  the  ''enchanted  stem"  had  resolved  itself  — 
a  glass  of  russet  cider!  But  I  took  the  blow  of 
fortune,  as  I  have  taken  others,  and  tried  to  find 
its  soft  side,  which  is  a  good  rule.  It  was  ex- 
cellent cider,  and  I  took  a  second  tall  tumbler. 
On  inquiry  I  found  it  was  not  even  of  the  fruit 
of  Djerba,  but  brewed  from  a  preparation  made 
at  Paris,  somewhat  as  root  beer  is  with  us. 
Meanwhile  we  had  tales  of  the  sea  and  old  ad- 
ventures on  "the  climbing  wave,"  pleasant  talk, 
till  I  brought  the  conversation  round  to  the 
jujubier.  It  bore  a  hard,  brown  fruit,  I  learned, 
sweetish,  and  a  drink  was  made  of  it,  like  lemon- 
ade; and,  yes,  it  had  a  sleepy  effect. .  My  hopes 
sprang  up  anew.  No,  it  was  not  bottled.  So, 
talking  incidentally  of  many  things,  my  host 
showed  me  the  rest  of  the  house,  the  little  bed- 


DJERBA  Sll 

room  with  his  photograph  of  other  days,  and 
with  a  last  health  we  went  out  into  the  garden, 
where  the  httle  girl  was  waiting  with  a  bunch 
of  the  spring  flowers,  and  we  walked  off  to  see 
the  jujubier. 

It  was  at  the  end  wall  of  a  small,  shut-up 
Arab  house  near  by,  against  which  it  was  trained. 
It  was  shoulder-high,  and  grew  in  stout,  hardy 
stocks.  The  blithe  old  man  told  me  it  must  be 
more  than  two  hundred  years  old.  I  said  it  was 
very  small  for  its  age;  but  he  added  that  its 
growth  was  very  slow,  almost  imperceptible. 
It  was  just  showing  signs  of  leaving  out;  a 
naked,  rough,  shrub-like  tree,  with  neither  leaf, 
nor  flower,  nor  fruit;  but  it  was  alive,  and  I 
still  have  hopes  that  in  the  case  of  a  tree  so 
long-lived  I  shall  some  time  find  it  in  its  season, 
and  eat  of  it,  and  perhaps  drink  its  sleepy  soul. 
I  went  back  to  the  garden  and  said  good-by  to 
my  kind  and  gentle  host,  and  I  was  really  almost 
as  glad  to  have  had  this  tranquil  hospitality  and 
Crusoe  memory  as  if  I  had  met  with  better  luck 
in  my  search.  I  walked  back  over  the  rough 
fields  content;  and  as  we  drove  slowly  through 
the  sand  in  the  wide  prospect  of  scattered  palm 
and  olive,  with  the  little  white  domes,  quiet  in 
the  universal  sun,  I  thought  the  lotus  land  was 
very  good  as  it  was. 


312    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


V 

The  marvellous  boy  was  waiting  at  the  pier; 
the  sail  was  set;  the  steamer,  a  distant  film  of 
gray  smoke  on  the  horizon,  was  sighted;  and 
we  cast  off.  It  was  a  pleasant  sail  but  without 
the  romance  of  the  landing.  The  boy,  almost 
in  my  arms,  sat  steering  the  boat,  and  conversed 
with  me  with  glances  of  his  brow^n  eyes;  the 
sad-faced  father  amidships  gazed  vacantly  over 
the  sea.  We  laid  a  straight  course,  and  it  was 
too  soon  finished.  The  embarkation  was  easy. 
The  old  man  gave  me  his  benediction  with 
humble  eagerness  and  dignity,  and  the  boy  fol- 
lowed me  aboard  with  my  things.  In  the  sa- 
loon he  put  his  little  hand  in  mine,  then  to  his 
lips  with  head  bowed,  and  touched  his  heart, 
looked  up,  smiled,  and  ran  off.  I  went  on  deck 
in  time  to  catch  the  last  wave  of  his  brown  hand, 
and,  leaning  on  the  rail,  watched  them  sailing 
homeward  to  the  palm-set  strip  of  pale  orange 
sky  on  the  long  horizon  rim. 


TRIPOLI 


VIII 
TRIPOLI 


4BSAL0M  ENGLAND,  a  tall  grizzled 
/~\  Arab  and  sea-pilot,  saluted  me  on  the 
deck.  The  combination  of  names,  race, 
and  occupation  might  have  seemed  peculiar  to 
me  once,  but  I  was  proof  against  any  African 
vagary.  He  was  a  land-pilot  now,  and  took 
charge  of  me  and  mine.  I  did  not  lose  my  lib- 
erty, but  I  had  unknowingly  parted  with  all 
responsibility  for  myself;  thereafter,  except  in 
consular  guard  or  barred  in  my  hotel,  I  was 
under  his  incessant  watch  and  ward.  I  even 
began  to  have  some  value  in  my  own  eyes,  see- 
ing at  what  a  price  I  was  rated,  and  could  eas- 
ily have  fancied  myself  a  disguised  soldan  with 
an  inseparable  follower.  He  treated  me  as 
something  between  a  son  and  a  sheik.  But  at 
the  moment,  to  my  unforeseeing  eyes,  he  w^as 
only  a  dark,  respectful  Arab,  with  a  weather- 
worn and  open-air  look,  black  with  many  sum- 

315 


316    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

mers,  a  strong  type  of  a  fine  race,  and  with  a 
terrible  cough  that  shook  him. 

We  passed  the  Turkish  officials  and  sank  like 
a  bubble  in  the  variety  and  vivacity  of  the 
land,  always  so  noticeable  when  one  comes  from 
the  sea.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  in  a  city  once 
more;  there  was  noise  and  movement  and 
things  to  look  at;  and  almost  at  once  the  gray 
mass  of  a  magnificent  ruined  arch,  half  buried 
in  the  street,  lifted  its  dark  and  heavy  stones, 
bossed  with  obliterated  faces  and  grimy  sculp- 
ture, among  the  paltry  buildings;  a  grocery 
shop  with  its  bright  fruits  and  lettered  boxes 
seemed  to  have  nested  like  a  swallow  in  its 
lower  stories.  It  looked  like  a  worn,  old  ocean 
rock  in  that  incongruous  tide  of  people  and 
trade  —  once  the  proud  arch  of  Marcus  Aure- 
lius.  A  few  moments  brought  us  to  what  else- 
where would  have  been  an  obscure  hotel  but 
was  here  the  chief  hostelry  —  a  house  with  an 
interior  court  as  usual,  a  few  chambers  opening 
on  dilapidated  galleries  in  a  double  tier,  and 
rude  stairs  leading  up.  Seyd,  a  Fezzan  negro 
boy,  showed  me  to  a  tumbled  room.  It  was  an 
unpromising  outlook  even  for  a  brief  sojourn. 
I  went  at  once  to  the  French  consul.  The 
other  powers  have  consuls,  except  that  America 
at  that  time  had  none;    but  owing  to  the  old 


TRIPOLI  317 

position  of  France  as  the  protector  of  all  Cath- 
olics, her  representative  is  pre-eminent  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Mohammedans  —  he  is  "the  con- 
sul." The  Consulate  was  a  very  fine  old  Arab 
house;  a  magnificent  dragoman  with  negro 
guards  received  me  in  the  great  silent  court 
and  led  me  up  the  broad  stone  stairway  to  the 
large  and  beautiful  rooms  where  I  was  to  feel 
myself  so  pleasantly  at  home.  Then  Absalom 
and  I  fared  forth. 

I  found  myself  in  a  true  African  street  with 
a  new  trait.  It  is  astonishing  what  originality 
crops  out  in  the  bare  and  simple  things  of  this 
land;  one  thinks  he  has  seen  all,  and  by  some 
slight  shift  of  the  lights  something  new  emerges 
and  is  magically  touched  —  the  real  and  com- 
mon made  mysterious,  the  daily  and  usual  made 
visionary,  the  familiar  unfamiliar  once  more. 
It  was  a  narrow  street,  vaulted  from  side  to 
side,  and  its  fresh  atmosphere  was  bathed  in 
that  cool  obscurity  which  in  this  land  of  fierce 
and  burning  rays  is  like  balm  to  the  eyes;  and, 
besides,  this  street  was  painted  blue,  which  was 
to  add  a  caress  to  the  softness  of  the  light. 
This  was  the  slight  and  magical  touch.  A 
stream  of  passers  went  down  and  up  the  cen- 
tre of  the  blueness;  the  little  shops  on  either 
side  strung  along  their  bright  and  curious  mer- 


318    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

chandise  of  the  museum  and  the  fair;  and  the 
shadowy,  azure-toned  perspectives  framed  each 
figure  as  it  came  near,  with  flowing  robe  or 
dark  haik  and  burdens  borne  on  head  and  shoul- 
der. The  place  had  an  atmosphere  all  its  own, 
that  stays  in  the  memory  like  perfume.  I  loved 
to  loiter  there  afterward,  but  then  we  had  a 
goal;  and  we  came  at  last  by  flights  of  steps 
to  the  market  on  the  great  space  near  the  sea. 
I  had  seen  the  people  by  the  beach  from  the 
steamer  and  wondered  at  their  number;  and 
that  was  why  I  had  come. 

It  was  by  far  the  greatest  market  I  ever  saw. 
It  was  truly  metropolitan.  I  went  among  the 
plotted  squares  of  merchandise  and  rows  of 
goods  spread  out  in  great  heaps  and  little  piles, 
and  along  by  the  small  tents  islanding  their 
foreign  treasures.  To  tell  and  name  it  all  would 
be  to  inventory  a  civilization:  cloths  and  finery 
and  trinkets;  grains  in  sacks,  amid  which  I 
wandered  nibbling  hard  kernels  of  strange  sa- 
vors, trying  unknown  nuts  and  dried  fruits; 
utensils,  strange-cornered  knives  with  curves  of 
murder,  straight,  broad  blades;  slippers  and 
caps;  what  seemed  to  me  droves  of  cows  —  it 
was  so  long  since  I  had  seen  cows  —  camels 
and  donkeys;  vegetables  —  bulbs,  pods,  and 
heads;    things  to  eat,  bobbing  in  pots  and  ket- 


TRIPOLI  319 

ties;  leathers,  hides,  straws.  It  was  an  impro- 
vised exposition  —  everything  that  the  desert 
hand  produces  or  manufactures  of  the  pastoral 
kind  or  that  the  desert  heart  has  learned  to 
desire  of  migratory  commerce  brought  from  far 
away.  The  grass  market  especially  attracted 
me  with  its  heaped-up  bales  of  alfa,  where 
camels  were  unloading  the  unwieldy  and  enor- 
mous burdens  balanced  across  their  backs;  and 
so  did  the  Soudanese  corner,  with  odd  straw- 
work,  deep-colored  gourds,  and  skin  bottles. 

But  the  stage  was  the  least  part  of  the 
scene;  in  this  play  the  crowd  was  the  thing. 
There  were  familiar  traits,  but  in  its  wholeness 
it  was  a  new  crowd.  I  scanned  them  as  an 
explorer  looks  at  an  unknown  tribe  from  the 
hills.  There  was  nothing  here  of  Tunisian  soft- 
ness, mild  affability  and  elegance,  not  the  sim- 
ple and  peaceful  countenances  seen  in  the  Zi- 
bans,  nor  the  amiable  cheer  and  brusque  energy 
of  the  Kabyles,  nor  the  blond  beauty  of  the 
Chaouias,  nor  even  the  forbidding  face  of  the 
Moor;  here  was  a  different  temper  —  the  spirit 
of  the  horde,  the  fierte  of  the  desert,  the  rude- 
ness of  nature,  borne  with  an  independence  of 
mien,  a  freedom  of  gait,  unblenching  eyes;  true 
desert  dwellers.  I  think  I  never  felt  the  full 
meaning  and  flavor  of  the  word,  autochthonous. 


320    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

before.  They  were  the  soil  made  man.  There 
was  also,  beyond  the  tough  fibre  and  wild  grace 
of  the  free  life,  another  impression,  which  owed 
perhaps  as  much  to  the  feeling  of  the  stranger 
there  as  to  anything  explicit  in  the  crowd  —  a 
sense  of  something  fierce  and  hard,  an  instinct 
of  hostilitj^  of  disdain,  the  egotism  of  an  alien 
faith  master  on  its  own  fanatic  soil. 

This  crowd,  which  fascinated  me  by  its  vital- 
ity and  temper  of  life,  was  clad  in  every  variety 
of  burnoose  and  haik  and  head-gear;  here  and 
there  was  a  crude  outbreak  of  color,  as  if  some 
one  had  spilt,  and  soiled,  aniline  dyes  at  ran- 
dom, but  the  general  effect  was  sober  —  brown 
earth  colors,  mixed  blacks  and  grays,  dingy 
whites,  a  work-a-day  world.  There  were  many 
negroes.  I  had  already  added  much  to  my 
knowledge  of  negro  types,  but  here  I  annexed, 
as  it  were,  new  kingdoms  of  physiognomy. 
These  men  were  strange  as  the  tropics:  some 
amazingly  long-waisted,  some  Herculean  in  mea- 
sure or  extraordinarily  lean  and  bulbous  in 
the  shoulders  —  new  species  of  human  heads. 
Arabs  and  Berbers,  mingled  with  the  mixed 
blood  of  half  a  continent,  made  the  bulk;  and 
here  and  there  stood  some  richer  personages, 
heavily  robed,  superbly  turbaned,  merchants 
from   Ghadames   and   from   further  off,   where 


TRIPOLI  321 

the  desert  routes  spread  fanwise  from  the  Sou- 
dan to  Timbuctoo,  opening  on  the  whole  breadth 
of  equatorial  Africa,  Lake  Tchad,  and  the  Niger. 
For  Tripoli  has  been  for  long  centuries  a  sea- 
metropolis  —  it  is  now  the  last  sea-metropolis 
—  of  the  native  desert  world ;  hither  still  comes 
the  raw  wealth  of  Africa,  with  all  the  old  train 
and  concomitants  of  caravan,  traders,  and  rob- 
ber instincts;  and  here  are  most  variously  and 
numerously  gathered  the  representatives  of  the 
untamed  tribes.  It  is  the  last  Mediterranean 
home  of  the  predatory,  migratory,  old  free  desert 
life.  This  market,  I  knew,  was  the  direct  de- 
scendant of  one  of  the  world's  oldest  trading- 
posts,  for  the  early  Phoenician  merchants  estab- 
lished a  commercial  station  here,  as  they  coasted 
along  exploring  the  unknown  world;  it  was  on 
this  beach  they  landed,  no  doubt;  that  was 
long  ago.  This  market  was  the  child  of  that  old 
trading-post.  It  was  a  wonderful  scene  there, 
under  the  crumbling  walls  in  the  blazing  sun 
by  the  quiet  sea. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  I  drove  out  into  the 
oasis,  which  is  a  suburb  on  the  southeast  of  the 
city.  We  were  soon  in  the  midst  of  it  and  pass- 
ing along  by  the  familiar  scene  of  palm  groves, 
with  fruit  trees  and  vegetables  and  silent  roads. 
It  was  a  more  open  country  than  usual,  and 


322    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

there  was  an  abundance  of  gardens  with  houses 
in  them;  it  had  more  the  character  of  suburban 
villa  life,  a  place  of  retirement  from  the  city, 
than  any  oasis  I  had  seen.  The  soil  had  much 
red  in  it,  and  this  gave  a  strong  ground-color 
over  which  the  greens  rose  darkly  on  the  blue. 
The  tall  wells  —  the  guerbas  —  were  a  common 
feature  in  the  gardens,  for  the  oasis  is  watered 
in  the  old  way  by  means  of  a  pulley  arrange- 
ment between  two  high  standards  over  which 
runs  a  rope  worked  by  a  mule  or  camel  or  other 
beast  of  all  work,  which  tramped  to  and  fro 
beneath  as  the  goatskin  bucket  rose  and  fell. 
I  visited  some  of  these  gardens,  picked  oranges, 
and  wandered  about  and  talked  with  the  la- 
borers. We  came  out  on  the  desert  sharp 
as  the  line  of  a  sea  beach,  cut  by  the  palms; 
there  was  a  fort  or  two  on  the  edge,  and  the 
hard,  barren  waste  swept  away  with  the  finality 
of  an  ocean  toward  the  far  distant  mountain 
range  southward.  Two  Turkish  officers  rode  up 
from  the  route;  they  were  fine  figures,  splen- 
didly horsed,  and  looked  very  real.  On  the  way 
back  we  saw  many  Turkish  soldiers,  sturdy, 
capable  men,  badly  clothed  but  military  in  ev- 
ery way.  I  was  more  interested  in  the  groups 
and  solitary  figures  returning  from  the  market 
to  their  homes,   the    Bedouins  with    sticks  in 


TRIPOLI  323 

their  hands  or  over  their  shoulders.  How  they 
walked!  What  an  erectness  in  their  heads! 
What  an  elan  in  their  stride  forward!  Strangely- 
enough,  they  reminded  me  of  the  virgins  of  the 
Erechtheum,  the  caryatides.  I  have  never  else- 
where seen  such  a  pose.  How  like  in  color  to 
earth,  too,  with  their  browns  and  grays  on  the 
strong  tones  of  the  roads  they  walked  along! 
It  was  the  clearness  before  twilight,  and  all  the 
lines  of  the  landscape  were  lowered  and  strong 
in  the  level  rays;  the  palmy  roads,  the  soldiers, 
the  Bedouins  made  a  picture  fuller  of  life  than 
one  usually  sees  in  an  oasis.  One  felt  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  city. 

When  I  went  out  at  night  the  streets  were 
dark;  lamps  here  and  there  gave  a  feeble  light, 
stores  were  open,  there  were  groups  about.  The 
cafes  I  dropped  into  were  not  full,  unless  small, 
and  were  all  very  quiet.  There  were  long  bub- 
ble pipes  to  be  had,  and  silent  Arabs  smoking 
them;  but  I  contented  myself  with  coffee.  It 
was  not  interesting,  and  I  went  to  the  Italian- 
Greek  theatre.  This  was  a  small  hall,  but  of 
considerable  size,  and  full  of  Sicilians  and  Greeks. 
They  were  a  hardy  looking  company,  not  to  say 
rough.  On  the  stage  a  girl  was  being  tied  to  a 
tree  by  some  Turks;  it  was  a  pantomime,  and 
the  plot  went  on  and  the  daring  rescue  was  ef- 


324    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

fected  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  audience.  While 
the  stage  was  being  prepared  anew,  there  was 
the  sound  of  a  row  at  the  door.  Instantly  on 
either  side  of  me  there  was  a  movement  and 
thrust  of  those  hard  faces  and  strong  shoulders, 
like  the  lift  of  a  dark  wave  at  sea;  it  reminded 
me  of  a  mass-play  at  football,  in  the  old  game, 
only  it  was  bigger,  darker,  tense;  it  was  fighting 
blood,  always  keyed  for  sudden  alarm  and  in- 
stantly ready  en  masse.  The  little  crowd,  serried 
head  over  head,  paused  a  moment,  as  an  Arab 
came  forward  and  made  a  short  speech,  explain- 
ing the  trouble.  The  men  fell  back  to  their 
seats.  The  play  was  going  on  now  —  it  was  a 
variety  performance  —  with  two  girls  singing 
songs,  and  the  rescued  maiden  of  the  pantomime 
came  down  to  collect  pennies.  It  was  curious  to 
see  the  changing  expression  on  the  faces  of  those 
men  and  boys.  They  had  been  hard  faces,  with 
Sicilian  sombreness  in  repose,  rugged  with  life, 
with  something  dark  and  gloomy  in  them;  now 
they  broke  into  smiles,  their  eyes  shone  and 
laughed,  as  she  passed  among  them,  they  were 
glad  to  have  her  speak  to  them  —  it  was  sun- 
shine breaking  out  over  a  rough  and  stormy  sea. 
There  was  a  dance  now;  and  so  the  scenes  went 
on  till  I  came  away  and  Absalom  piloted  me 
through   the   dark   and   deserted   ways   to   the 


TRIPOLI  325 

hotel.  It  was  closed  of  course,  but  I  was  not 
prepared  for  what  followed.  There  was  a  great 
undoing  of  bars  and  turning  of  locks,  and  I 
stepped  in  over  the  body  of  a  sleeping  negro 
and  waited  till  his  companion  did  up  the  fasten- 
ings. They  seemed  to  me  sufficient  for  a  for- 
tress; and,  not  content  with  that,  these  two 
negroes  slept  all  night  on  the  floor  next  the  door. 
It  was  like  a  mediaeval  guard  room. 

n 

We  were  finishing  our  late  nooning  at  the 
cafe  which  pleased  me  best  near  the  little  park 
with  the  old  Roman  statues  by  the  sea,  where 
the  handful  of  resident  Europeans  liked  to  take 
the  air  at  evening.  I  was  engaged  in  my  fa- 
vorite occupation  of  regarding  the  street.  The 
little  room  was  crowded  with  natives  seated 
close,  quietly  gaming  or  doing  nothing;  Turkish 
officers  rolled  by  in  carriages;  there  was  con- 
tinuous passing;  a  half-dozen  gamins  played  in 
the  street,  the  most  eager-faced,  the  most  lithe- 
motioned  of  boys,  the  most  snapping-eyed  Jew- 
ish bootblacks,  quite  beyond  the  nimble  Biskris 
of  Algiers  reputed  to  be  the  kings  of  the  pro- 
fession in  the  Mediterranean;  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street  a  flower  seller  was,  as  always,  bind- 


826    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ing  up  violets  interminably  in  his  lean  hands. 
It  was  a  pleasant  scene;  but  I  lazily  consented 
when  Absalom  suggested  that  we  drive  out  to 
the  Jewish  village.  We  crossed  the  street  to 
the  cab-stand.  I  am  not  good  at  bargaining, 
and  I  am  impatient  at  the  farce  or  tragedy,  as 
the  case  may  be,  of  a  guide  beating  down  a 
cabman;  but  my  feelings  toward  Absalom  were 
different.  I  frankly  admired  him  as  he  stood 
in  his  plain  dignity,  perfectly  motionless,  with 
a  long-stemmed  rose  at  his  lips,  a  beautiful 
half-blown  dark  bloom  with  the  curves  of  a 
shell  in  its  frail,  firm  petals;  and  when  the 
figure  had  dropped  deftly  and  almost  noise- 
lessly from  fifteen  francs  to  six,  *'it  is  just," 
said  Absalom,  and  seated  me  in  the  carriage 
with  the  double  harness. 

We  passed  into  the  pleasant  vistas  of  the 
oasis,  rolling  over  the  red  roads  with  the  tum- 
bled earth  walls  and  by  the  deep-retired  houses 
and  the  orange  gardens,  and  the  air  was  full 
of  the  fresh  balm  of  spring.  It  was  a  smiling, 
green,  and  blossoming  world,  and  it  was  good 
to  be  alive.  I  knew  it  was  just  such  a  world 
that  such  villages  are  in,  and  this  one  was 
native  to  the  oasis  and  partook  of  its  qualities; 
but  it  seemed  to  take  only  the  rudest  and  rough- 
est of  them  and  to  carry  them  down.     It  was 


TRIPOLI  327 

a  disheartening  sight.  I  had  never  seen  so 
wretched  a  Jewish  village.  The  houses,  the  peo- 
ple were  of  the  poorest;  and  not  in  an  ordinary 
way.  The  village  was  a  fantasy  of  poverty,  a 
diablerie.  The  faces  and  forms,  attitudes,  oc- 
cupations of  the  people,  their  mere  aggregation, 
depressed  me  in  a  sinister  way.  Some  of  them 
were  sharpening  sickles  on  old  bones ;  and  others, 
women  with  earrings,  were  working  at  some 
primitive  industry  with  their  toes,  using  them 
as  if  they  were  fingers.  The  little  place  was 
thronged  and  busy  as  an  ant-hill;  but  the  signs 
of  wretched  life  were  everywhere,  and  most  in 
the  bodies  of  these  poor  creatures.  I  was  glad 
to  be  again  in  the  garden  and  grove  of  the  road- 
side, and  amid  the  wholesomeness  of  nature,  as 
we  drove  off  to  the  centre  of  the  oasis. 

There  we  found  a  great  house,  that  seemed 
to  be  of  some  public  nature,  built  on  the  top  of 
a  high,  bare  hill.  It  belonged  to  a  pashaw,  and 
its  roof  commanded  the  whole  view  of  the  oasis 
and  its  surroundings.  It  was  somewhat  like  a 
rambling  summer  hotel  in  aspect.  We  were  ad- 
mitted as  if  there  were  nothing  uncommon  in 
our  visit,  and  I  mounted  to  the  roof  and  saw  the 
wide  prospect  —  the  white  city  and  blue  sea 
behind,  the  ring  of  the  palmerai  about,  the  gray 
desert  beyond  —  and  on  coming  down  was  taken 


328    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

to  a  large  and  rather  empty  room  with  a  balcony. 
There  Absalom  told  me  that  the  pashaw,  who 
seemed  to  be  the  city  governor,  would  be  pleased 
if  I  would  lend  him  my  carriage,  as  he  had  an 
unexpected  call  to  go  to  town.  Shortly  after 
the  pashaw  came  in.  It  was  evident  that  Ab- 
salom regarded  him  as  a  very  great  man.  He 
shook  hands  with  me,  and  was  gravely  courteous; 
but  he  understood  very  little  French,  and  real 
conversation  was  out  of  the  question.  He  or- 
dered coffee,  gave  me  cigarettes,  and  took  me  out 
on  the  balcony,  pointing  out  the  desert  moun- 
tain range,  Djebel-Ghariane,  of  which  there  was 
a  fine  view,  and  other  features.  We  drank  our 
coffee,  and  after  perhaps  twenty  minutes  of 
polite  entertainment  he  took  my  card,  shook 
hands  in  a  friendly  spirit,  and  bade  me  good-by 
with  an  au  revoir.  I  sat  alone  looking  out  from 
the  balcony  toward  those  distant  mountains  over 
the  great  desert,  smoking  the  cigarettes  he  had 
left  me,  and  thinking  of  that  vast  hinterland 
of  fanatic  Islam  before  my  eyes,  so  jealously 
guarded  from  exploration,  where  the  fires  of  ha- 
tred against  the  Christian  nations  are  system- 
atically fed,  while  a  victorious  proselytism  is 
sweeping  through  the  central  negro  tribes,  re- 
claiming them  from  fetich  worship  to  "the  only 
God."     The  carriage  was  not  gone  long.     We 


TRIPOLI  S29 

drove  back  at  once,  and  I  found  the  flower  seller 
by  the  cab-stand  still  twining  those  endless 
bunches  of  violets,  and  jonquils  and  narcissi,  in 
the  sinking  sun. 

That  evening  we  spent  at  the  Turkish  theatre. 
It  was  better  furnished  than  the  Sicilian.  Palms 
decorated  one  side  of  the  stage,  and  large  flags 
draped  the  back.  The  centre  was  occupied  by 
a  group  of  three  women  of  whom  the  one  in  the 
middle  was  plainly  the  prima  donna.  She  was 
a  striking  figure,  tall,  and,  in  her  dress,  attitude, 
and  expression,  of  the  music-hall  Cleopatra  type. 
A  high,  gilt  crown  rested  on  her  abundant  black 
hair;  her  eyebrows  were  straight,  the  eyes  liquid, 
roving,  and  full  of  fire,  the  mouth  and  other 
features  large,  the  throat  beautiful  and  firm;  a 
white  veil  descended  from  the  crown  on  either 
side,  ornaments  were  on  her  arms  and  feet,  she 
wore  a  flashing  girdle,  but  the  effect  of  her  per- 
son was  not  dissipated  in  jewels  or  color;  her 
figure  remained  statuesque,  linear,  and  so  much 
so  that  there  seemed  to  me  something  almost 
hieratic  in  her  pose,  as  she  stood  there,  with  the 
crown  and  the  veil,  motionless,  the  whole  semi- 
barbaric  form  finely  relieved  on  the  broad  stripe 
of  the  beautiful  flag  behind.  This  was  when  she 
was  in  repose;  when  she  sang  or  danced  the 
effect  was  quite  different.     I  was  not  her  only 


330    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

admirer.  There  were  a  hundred  or  more  men 
in  the  hall  —  no  Europeans.  They  were  smok- 
ing, talking,  moving  about  in  their  seats  freely, 
with  an  indolent  cafe  manner,  and  the  perform- 
ance went  on  with  long  waits.  The  lady  of  the 
stage  was  a  favorite;  men  threw  cigarettes  to 
her  and  engaged  her  in  conversation  from  the 
floor,  and  she  would  fling  back  a  sentence  to 
them.  There  was  one  admirer  beyond  all  the 
rest.  He  sat  in  the  centre  near  the  stage,  a 
splendidly  appointed  youth  from  Alexandria, 
garbed  in  the  richest  red,  with  a  princely  ele- 
gance and  mien,  a  gallant;  cigarettes  were  not 
for  him  —  he  stood  up  and  threw  kisses  with 
both  hands  vociferously  and  numerously;  he 
left  no  doubt  as  to  his  sentiments.  Once  or 
twice  he  attempted  to  rush  the  stage,  but  was 
restrained.  He  would  go  out,  and  come  back 
loaded  with  flowers  for  ammunition.  He  had  a 
negro  rival  off  to  the  left,  also  finely  apparelled, 
but  no  match  in  that  regard  for  the  Alexandrian 
red,  though  he  held  his  own  in  the  attention  of 
both  the  audience  and  the  queen  of  the  stage. 
Meanwhile  the  numbers  of  the  performance 
lazily  succeeded  one  another;  there  was  music 
on  the  zithern  and  mandolin,  the  tambour  was 
heard  —  songs,  dances,  other  girls.  It  was  all 
perfectly  blameless;    and,  indeed,  in  my  judg- 


TRIPOLI  331 

ment,  the  Arabs  have  a  stronger  sense  of  public 
decorum  than  the  northern  barbarians  at  their 
play.  I  saw  the  entertainment  out  and  went 
to  my  castle. 

Ill 

A  DRIVE  in  the  oasis  was  always  worth  having; 
the  sky  was  the  purest  blue,  it  was  brisk  desert 
air  in  the  nostrils,  and  notwithstanding  my  mis- 
adventure with  the  Jewish  village  I  yielded  to 
Absalom's  programme  and  went  to  see  how  the 
negroes  fared  at  their  own  rendezvous.  It  was 
a  lesson  to  me  not  to  prejudge  even  a  trifling  ad- 
venture in  a  new  land.  The  sight  was  piquant. 
The  village  was  a  little  collection  of  conical 
roofed  huts  with  brush  fences  round  each  one; 
a  few  palms  feathered  the  sky  over  it,  and  groves 
of  them  made  the  horizon  lines,  except  where 
the  sparkling  sea  stretched  off  beneath  the  bluff. 
The  place  was  alive  with  women  and  children 
in  striped  burnooses  and  nondescript  folds, 
whose  rough  edges  and  nutty  colors  seemed  to 
belong  to  the  complexions  and  stiff  hair,  of  all 
varieties  of  turn,  that  one  saw  on  every  side. 
They  were  very  poor  people,  of  course,  but  their 
miserable  state  did  not  make  so  harsh  an  im- 
pression as  in  the  case  of  the  Jewish  village; 


332    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

there  was  a  happy  Hght  in  their  faces  and  a  fit- 
ness in  the  environment  of  hut  and  brush  under 
the  palms  in  the  sun  which  made  the  scene  a 
part  of  nature.  It  was  a  bit  of  equatorial  Africa 
transplanted  and  set  down  here  —  a  Soudanese 
village  in  its  native  aspect,  even  to  that  touch  of 
grimace,  as  of  human  nature  laughing  at  itself, 
which  negroes  have  in  their  wild  state.  I  had 
a  flash  of  such  an  experience  at  Gabes;  in  the 
oasis,  just  below  the  beautiful  sweep  of  the  cas- 
cades, there  suddenly  sprang  up  before  me  in 
the  bush  a  young  negress,  as  wonderfully  clad 
as  unclad.  It  was  as  if  a  picture  in  my  geog- 
raphy had  come  to  life.  I  might  have  been  in 
a  jungle  on  the  banks  of  the  Niger.  It  was  the 
same  here;  the  degrees  of  latitude  seemed  to 
have  got  mixed;  the  scene  belonged  much  fur- 
ther south  under  a  tropic  sky,  and  I  lingered 
about  it  with  interest  and  curiosity. 

Then  I  turned  to  the  market  close  by  —  not 
a  great  market  like  that  of  the  citj^  but  the  oasis 
market.  It  did  not  cover  a  large  space,  but 
was  prettily  situated,  and  banked  at  one  side  by 
a  fine  palm  grove,  which  gave  it  character  and 
country  peace.  There  were  two  or  three  hun- 
dred people  there,  scattered  among  the  usual 
squares  of  goods  and  vegetables,  variegated  with 
straw  work,  skin  bottles,  and  Soudanese  helmets; 


TRIPOLI  333 

but  there  was  an  uncommon  number  of  animals 
—  camels  and  cows,  sheep  and  goats.  There 
was  slaughtering  going  on  near  the  palm  grove. 
It  seemed  that  the  purchaser  picked  out  the 
particular  sheep  he  preferred,  and  it  was  made 
mutton  before  his  eyes.  It  reminded  me  of 
Greek  Easter  days.  The  scene,  however,  was 
by  no  means  sanguinary;  it  was  a  country  fair 
amid  the  quiet  palms  asleep  in  the  blue  —  the 
life  of  the  people  in  their  own  land  in  their 
ancestral  ways. 

IV 

The  consul  had  made  me  his  friend  by  inces- 
sant kindness.  He  had  at  the  start  insisted  on 
my  taking  my  first  meal  in  Tripoli  with  him,  and 
since  then  I  had  lived  almost  as  much  at  his  table 
as  at  the  hotel,  which  was  a  blessing,  not  to  say 
a  charity.  He  was  a  scholarly  gentleman,  long 
resident  in  the  Levant,  and  familiar  with  the 
Moslem  world,  though  his  appointment  to 
Tripoli  was  of  recent  date.  It  was  to  this  last 
fact,  perhaps,  that  I  owed  the  rarest  of  my  priv- 
ileges, an  invitation  to  visit  the  mosques  in  his 
company.  Tripoli  is  a  stronghold  of  fanaticism, 
and  the  mosques  are  jealously  closed  to  the  in- 
fidel;  permission  to  visit  them  is  seldom  given, 


334    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

and  if  formally  granted  is  generally  made  nuga- 
tory in  some  underhand  way;  for  a  person  in 
my  unofficial  station  such  a  visit  would  be  un- 
exampled. The  consul,  however,  had  never 
himself  seen  them,  and  he  suggested  that  this 
would  be  an  opportunity  for  me.  His  applica- 
tion was  at  once  honored,  and  the  next  morning 
the  chief  of  police  called  and  we  set  out  at  once, 
preceded  by  the  consular  cavass  or  dragoman, 
himself  no  mean  figure  corporeally,  brilliant  in 
his  Algerian  uniform  and  bearing  before  him 
the  formidable  and  highly  ornamented  staff  of 
his  office. 

We  went  first  to  the  Gurgy  Mosque,  which  is 
considered  the  finest  of  all.  I  wondered  if  the 
key  would  be  lost,  which  is  the  usual  subterfuge; 
but  the  guardian  was  quickly  found,  and  turned 
the  lock.  My  account  of  the  mosques  must  be 
meagre;  the  occasion  allowed  of  only  a  coup 
d'oeily  it  was  impossible  to  take  notes  on  the 
spot,  and  one  could  examine  in  detail  only  near 
objects  in  passing.  I  can  give  only  an  impres- 
sion, not  a  description.  All  mosques  are  much 
alike  in  plan  and  arrangement.  There  is  a 
plain,  open  hall  with  the  great  vacant  floor- 
space  for  prayer,  the  ornamented  mihrab  or 
niche  in  the  wall,  showing  the  direction  of  Mecca 
toward  which  all  turn,  with  brazen  candlesticks 


TRIPOLI  335 

or  hanging  silver  lamps,  and  by  its  side  and  at  a 
little  distance  the  high  pulpit  with  a  steep  stair- 
way for  the  preacher  or  leader;  there  may  be 
also  a  closed  box  on  the  floor,  or  sometimes  ele- 
vated, for  the  Sultan  or  his  representative,  and 
a  latticed  space  for  women.  These  are  perma- 
nent features.  The  mosques  differ  much,  how- 
ever, in  size,  ornamentation,  and  aspect,  and  in 
the  entourage  of  the  main  room,  its  approaches, 
courts,  and  dependencies.  The  interior  of  the 
Gurgy  Mosque  was  square,  finely  decorated, 
beautifully  wrought.  Intersecting  arches,  rest- 
ing on  rows  of  columns,  divided  it  into  several 
naves  with  many  domes.  The  walls  were  tiled, 
and  an  unusual  look  of  elaborate  finish  was 
given  to  the  general  effect  by  the  fact  that  all 
the  surfaces  were  entirely  covered,  nothing  be- 
ing left  bare;  to  the  color  tones  of  the  tiles 
were  added  on  all  sides  the  lights  of  the  highly 
wrought  stucco  incrustation,  cool  marbles,  and 
the  dark,  rich  contrasts  of  beautifully  carved 
wood.  The  capitals  of  the  columns,  done  in 
stucco,  were  each  different.  Texts  of  the  Koran, 
illuminated  in  a  fine  script  on  a  broad  band 
at  the  base  of  the  domes,  gave  another  element 
to  the  decoration.  It  was  a  beautiful  mosque, 
and  I  remember  it  as  one  of  the  few  I  have  seen 
which  were  perfectly  finished;    there  was  noth- 


336    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ing  ruinous  or  aged  or  bare  about  it,  and  it  was 
completed  —  a  lovely  interior  in  which  the  simple 
elements  of  beauty  employed  in  this  art  were 
admirably  blended.  We  especially  admired  the 
carved  woodwork  here.  Our  stay,  however,  was 
but  of  a  few  moments'  duration,  and  we  saw 
only  this  interior. 

We  passed  on  to  the  Mosque  of  Dragut,  the 
pirate,  the  same  who  built  the  mound  of  Chris- 
tian skulls  at  Djerba  by  the  seashore.  It  was 
quite  different,  a  plain  old  mosque  with  old 
columns,  and  seemed  to  belong  to  old  times. 
In  a  low  chamber  to  one  side  was  Dragut's 
tomb.  It  was  covered  with  green  cloth,  and 
at  the  four  corners  colored  banners  hung  over 
it;  other  tombs  stood  about  it  in  the  chapel, 
princes  of  Islam,  and  the  usual  maps  of  Mecca 
and  the  tomb  of  the  Prophet  were  on  the  walls, 
and  some  cherished  objects  of  historic  or  per- 
sonal reverence  were  here  and  there;  all  about 
were  the  great  candles  and  the  turban-topped 
small  columns  of  the  dead.  It  was  a  place  of 
profound  peace.  This  impression  was  deepened 
still  more  as  we  passed  out  into  the  adjoining 
courts  with  their  low,  crypt-like  columns,  white- 
washed, heavy,  and  sombre.  Here  the  com- 
missary, or  chief,  who  had  us  in  charge,  an 
amiable-faced  Turk  with  a  gray,  grizzled  beard, 


TRIPOLI  337 

pointed  out  the  tomb  of  the  English  captain, 
as  it  is  known,  a  renegade  lieutenant  of  Dragut, 
who  sleeps  in  a  beautiful  niche  nigh  his  old 
commander.  Further  on  beneath  an  immense, 
broad  old  fig-tree  in  the  court  were  other  tombs, 
with  the  turbaned  end-slabs  of  different  styles 
and  heights  —  a  little  company  shut  in  this 
quiet  close  of  death.  A  great  silence  and  peace- 
fulness  reigned  there,  alike  about  the  ancient 
fig-tree  without  and  in  the  bannered  chamber 
within.  I  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  place 
of  repose  the  great  pirate  had  found  out  for 
himself  and  his  companions  in  his  death.  I 
went  out  touched  more  than  commonly  with 
that  sense  of  deep  calm  which  a  mosque  always, 
half-mysteriously,  awakes  in  me. 

Of  the  third  mosque,  which  I  did  not  identify, 
but  suppose  to  have  been  that  of  Mahmat,  we 
had  barely  a  passing  glimpse,  looking  down  from 
a  gallery  upon  a  large  carpeted  floor  —  there 
were  many  carpets  —  but  it  seemed  to  offer 
nothing  of  special  interest.  The  fourth,  how- 
ever, El-Nakr,  the  Mosque  of  the  Camel,  was 
after  my  own  heart.  It  is  the  most  ancient,  as 
indeed  one  would  expect  from  the  name,  that 
of  Dragut  being  next  in  age,  and  has  the  special 
sanctity  that  attaches  to  a  traditional  religious 
spot.     I  suppose  it  was  here  that  the  faith  be- 


338    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

gan  on  the  soil.  We  entered  first  into  one  of 
those  low-columned,  crypt-like  courts;  two  tall 
palms  were  growing  in  it,  with  a  little  patch  of 
bright-green  barley  beneath.  The  artistic  effect 
of  this  simple  scene  of  nature,  framed  in  the  se- 
clusion of  the  gray  old  walls,  with  its  bit  of  sky 
above,  the  sunshine  and  the  unbroken  peace, 
as  it  fell  on  my  eyes,  was  indescribable;  of  a 
thousand  scenes  it  imprinted  itself  on  my  mem- 
ory as  a  thing  seen  once  and  seen  forever  —  one 
of  those  pictures  that  are  only  painted  by  the 
soul  for  itself.  We  passed  within.  It  was  an 
old  plain  mosque,  with  low  columns  and  an 
ancient  look,  all  without  elegance  or  ornament. 
It  was  in  the  same  spirit  as  that  of  Dragut,  but 
with  still  more  of  austerity  and  impressiveness. 
This  was  the  stern  old  faith,  which  could  dis- 
pense with  all  but  God.  It  touched  the  Puri- 
tan sentiment  in  me  to  the  quick.  This  was 
Islam  in  its  spirituality.  Here  there  was  the 
solitary  desert  soul  in  its  true  devotion,  that 
sought  only  room  for  God  —  the  same  room  as 
on  the  desert  sands  or  on  mountain  tops.  There 
was  nothing  else  in  the  mosque  —  only  the  bar- 
ley under  the  palms  by  the  crypt-like  cloister, 
the  low-columned  austerity  within.  I  felt  the 
harmony  of  the  two  —  they  were  different 
chords,  but  one  music  of  the  desert  silence. 


TRIPOLI  339 

It  was  only  when  we  came  out  from  this  sanc- 
tuary that  I  noticed  any  resentment  among  the 
people.  As  we  walked  down  by  the  row  of 
men  standing  about  the  entrance,  scowling 
faces  and  fire-flashing  eyes  were  bent  on  us  on 
all  sides,  but  there  was  no  other  demonstration, 
and  we  passed  through  the  crowd  in  that  silent 
glare  of  hate.  It  is  a  curious  sensation  to  feel 
oneself  an  object  of  hatred  to  a  crowd,  and  this 
was  my  first  experience  of  it,  though,  of  course, 
one  notices  the  hostile  look  of  individuals  in 
Mohammedan  countries.  It  was  disagreeable; 
and  I  half  blamed  myself  for  having  violated 
a  prejudice  which  was  perfectly  natural  for 
these  men.  We  were  out  of  the  press  in  a  few 
moments,  and  soon  reached  the  last  mosque 
that  it  was  thought  worth  while  to  visit,  that 
of  Ahmed  Pashaw.  It  was  large,  of  the  same 
decorated  type  as  the  first.  There  were  the 
same  old  marble  columns,  the  beautifully  orna- 
mented mihrab,  the  pulpit,  the  Sultan's  box,  a 
brown  latticed  gallery;  bright  mats  lay  on  the 
floor,  the  blue  and  green  tiles  shone  cool  on 
the  walls,  moulded  stucco  and  carved  wood 
filled  the  spaces,  there  being  one  unusually  fine 
ceiling  in  carved  wood;  and  there  were  Koranic 
texts.  The  crescent  was  abundantly  used  in  the 
decoration.     It  was  all  very  beautiful  and  char- 


340    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

acteristlc,  full  of  restful  tones,  of  harmony  and 
repose.  As  we  passed  toward  an  Inner  door 
leading  to  the  cemetery  of  the  mosque,  we  no- 
ticed inscriptions  to  the  dead  on  the  wall,  and 
one  was  pointed  out  of  a  pious  man  who  went 
straight  to  Paradise.  Outside  beyond  the  tall 
minaret  were  the  tombs  of  the  faithful  who 
were  buried  here,  with  the  turban-topped  slabs 
as  usual.  The  guardian,  who  seemed  a  very 
old  man,  with  true  Arab  gentleness  urged  me 
repeatedly  and  cordially  to  climb  the  minaret, 
but  I  refrained,  disliking  to  detain  my  com- 
panions. We  passed  out  from  this  beautiful 
inner  close  into  the  street,  and  turned  to  the 
Consulate  where  we  talked  over  our  morning's 
walk. 

It  was  no  small  part  of  my  pleasure  in  Tripoli 
that  I  owed  to  my  friend's  hospitality,  which 
gave  me  the  graces  and  comfort  of  civilization 
in  so  rude  a  place  as  the  ordinary  traveller  nec- 
essarily finds  such  a  country.  The  boys  of  the 
oasis,  in  other  parts  of  Africa,  had  given  me 
the  wine  of  the  date-palm  fresh  from  the  tree; 
here  I  drank  it  a  little  fermented,  an  exotic 
drink  piquing  the  curiosity,  and  was  the  more 
glad  to  renew  my  memory  of  a  long-forgotten 
rosso  spumante  and  to  make  altogether  new  ac- 
quaintance  with  pleasant   wines   of    Touraine. 


TRIPOLI  341 

What  conversations  we  had  over  these  and  on 
the  quiet  terrace  by  the  garden,  ranging  through 
French  African  territory  and  the  Levant,  touch- 
ing on  Persian  poets;  and  my  host  showed  me 
many  beautiful  things.  It  is  in  this  atmos- 
phere of  scholarly  talk  and  friendly  kindness 
that  I  remember  the  morning  walk  among  the 
mosques  of  Tripoh. 

V 

The  British  consul,  who  had  also  shown  me 
attention,  arranged  for  me  to  visit  the  Turkish 
school  of  arts  and  crafts.  Hassan  Bey,  who 
seemed  to  be  an  aid  of  the  Vali,  waited  on  us 
one  morning  at  the  Consulate,  and  we  set  out 
to  walk  to  the  school.  Hassan  Bey  was  an 
exile  from  Daghestan,  of  a  fine  military  figure, 
middle-aged,  thick-set,  with  a  pleasant  counte- 
nance; his  gray  whiskers  became  his  energetic 
face;  he  had  a  look  of  power  and  the  grave 
authority  of  character.  He  wore  a  sword;  his 
sleeves  and  gold  braid  gave  distinction  to  his 
person;  and  he  carried  lightly,  like  a  cane,  the 
short,  twisted  whip  of  stiff  bull's  hide  that  one 
occasionally  sees  on  these  coasts.  I  have  sel- 
dom seen  so  manly  a  figure,  rugged  and  strong, 
and  stamped  by  nature  for  rule;  and  his  polite- 


342    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ness  was  complete  and  charming,  with  an  ac- 
cent of  strength  and  breeding  that  put  it  out 
of  the  category  of  mere  grace  of  manners.  He 
interested  me  profoundly  by  his  personality,  an 
entirely  new  type  in  my  experience,  and  as  the 
walk  was  somewhat  long  I  had  an  opportunity 
to  observe  him. 

The  director  of  the  school  received  us  cor- 
dially, gave  us  coffee  and  cigarettes,  and  showed 
us  through  the  buildings  which  were  rather 
extensive.  The  school  is  endowed  with  some 
lands,  and  its  income  is  supplemented  by  volun- 
tary funds  and  a  subsidy  from  the  government. 
It  receives  upward  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pupils,  from  the  age  of  twelve  years,  and  com- 
pletely supports  them  during  the  course,  which 
is  seven  years  in  length.  Some  literary  instruc- 
tion is  given,  such  as  geography  and  secondary 
branches;  but  the  main  end  of  the  school  is 
technical  training  in  the  arts  and  crafts.  There 
was  a  carpet  and  silk-weaving  department,  a 
tailor-shop,  a  shoe-shop,  carpentry,  a  foundry 
and  blacksmithing,  a  refectory  and  store-rooms. 
The  shops  were  rather  empty,  and  the  students 
whom  I  saw  were  few  and  of  all  ages;  the  rest 
may  have  been  at  their  books.  The  foundry 
and  the  carpenter-shop  were  the  busiest  and 
most  occupied;    there  were  many  heavy  pieces 


TRIPOLI  343 

of  machinery  of  modern  make,  and  the  depart- 
ment seemed  properly  provided  for  and  in  com- 
petent management;  work  was  going  on  in  both 
these  rooms,  which  I  watched  with  great  interest. 
I  was  told  that  the  furniture  of  the  Ottoman 
Bank  was  made  here,  and  apparently  orders  of 
various  kinds,  as,  for  example,  for  wheels,  were 
regularly  received. 

The  foundation  clearly  enough  was  only  a 
beginning,  and  the  provision  inadequate  to  the 
scale;  but  it  was  a  serious  and  admirable  at- 
tempt to  plant  the  mechanical  arts  in  the  coun- 
try in  their  modern  form  and  development,  and 
to  foster  industry  in  the  simple  crafts.  The 
idea  was  there  and  in  operation,  however  the 
means  to  realize  it  might  seem  small  in  my 
American  eyes,  used  to  great  industrial  riches 
in  such  things;  and  I  was  much  impressed,  not 
only  by  the  facts  but  by  the  spirit  of  the  thing 
and  those  who  had  it  in  charge.  The  products 
seemed  excellent,  so  far  as  I  could  judge  of  the 
various  things  shown  me.  I  followed  the  ex- 
ample of  the  consul  in  buying  a  small  bolt  of 
strong  silk  in  a  beautiful  design  of  brilliant- 
colored  stripes,  and  I  should  have  been  glad 
to  have  taken  more  in  other  varieties.  I  was 
rather  surprised  when  at  the  end  Hassan  Bey 
suggested  my  going  into  the  girls'  carpet  school. 


344    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

We  entered,  paused  a  moment  at  the  school- 
room door  that  some  notice  might  be  given, 
and  on  going  into  the  room  I  saw  that  all 
the  girls,  who  were  young,  were  standing  with 
their  faces  turned  to  the  wall.  We  remained 
only  long  enough  to  see  the  nature  of  the  work 
and  its  arrangement,  and  for  a  word  with  the 
teacher;  but  the  scene,  with  the  young  girlish 
profiles  along  the  sides,  was  picturesque.  There 
is  one  other  carpet  school  for  girls  in  another 
city.  We  spent  perhaps  two  hours  in  this  in- 
spection and  walked  leisurely  back  to  town, 
where  I  parted  with  Hassan  Bey  with  sincere 
admiration. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  with  Absalom  to 
visit  a  school  I  had  heard  of  in  the  Jewish 
quarter,  a  pious  foundation,  the  bequest  of  a 
wealthy  Jew,  for  the  education  of  poor  boys. 
There  were  about  five  hundred  of  them  there, 
bright-eyed,  intelligent,  intent,  as  Jewish  boys 
in  their  condition  usually  are.  The  buildings 
were  excellent,  properly  furnished,  with  the  sub- 
stantial and  prosperous  look  of  a  well-admin- 
istered educational  enterprise.  I  visited  several 
rooms,  saw  the  boys  at  their  desks  and  classes, 
heard  some  exercises,  and  talked  with  the  pro- 
fessor in  charge.  I  noticed  a  tennis-court  on 
the  ground.     Altogether,  I  was  more  than  favor- 


TRIPOLI  345 

ably  impressed  by  what  I  saw,  and  the  mere 
presence  here  of  a  well-organized  charity  school 
on  such  a  scale  was  an  encouraging  sign.  It 
was  surprising  to  me  to  find  this  establishment 
and  the  technical  school  at  Tripoli,  where  I  had 
certainly  not  anticipated  seeing  anything  of  the 
sort,  nor  was  this  my  only  surprise.  I  had 
thought  of  Tripoli  as  a  semi-barbarous  coun- 
try almost  detached  from  civilization,  a  focus 
for  Moslem  fanaticism,  a  place  for  Turkish 
exiles,  a  last  foothold  of  the  slave-trader,  and 
such  it  truly  was;  but  it  did  not  present  the 
aspect  of  neglect  and  decay  that  I  had  imagined 
as  concomitant  with  this.  The  old  gates  of  the 
city  had  recently  been  removed;  outside  the 
walls  there  was  a  good  deal  of  new  building 
going  on,  which  was  a  sign  of  safer  and  more 
settled  life  as  well  as  of  a  kind  of  prosperity; 
the  roads  were  excellent,  and  in  a  Turkish  de- 
pendency that  is  noticeable;  in  some  places 
new  pavements  had  been  laid.  In  other  words, 
there  was  evidence  of  enterprise  and  public 
works,  of  modern  life  and  vitality;  and  this 
impression  w^as  much  strengthened  by  my  ex- 
perience of  the  two  schools.  It  is  true  that  I 
never  lost  the  sense  of  that  strangely  conglom- 
erate crowd  that  passed  through  the  streets, 
that  mixed  and  fanatic  people.     I  indulged  no 


346    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

illusions  with  respect  to  the  populace  en  masse. 
The  state  of  things,  however,  seemed  to  me  by 
no  means  so  bad,  with  these  stirrings  of  civili- 
zation, of  betterment,  of  a  modern  spirit  in  the 
city,  and  I  was  frankly  surprised  by  it. 

My  surprise  melted  away  some  months  later 
when,  on  opening  my  morning  paper  in  America 
to  read  of  the  Turkish  revolution,  I  saw  that 
the  Vali  of  Tripoli  was  among  the  first  of  the 
exiles  to  sail  for  Constantinople;  and  I  ob- 
served that,  later,  he  had  an  active  part  in  the 
government  of  the  Young  Turks.  He  and  Has- 
san Bey  had  been  doing  in  Tripoli  what  they 
had  been  exiled  for  wishing  to  do  on  the  Bos- 
phorus.     Then  I  understood. 

VI 

It  was  night.  Absalom  and  I  were  in  the 
Arab  quarter,  on  our  way  to  see  some  Soudanese 
dancing.  There  were  few  passers  in  the  deep- 
shadowed,  silent,  blind  streets  that  grew  darker 
and  seemed  more  mysterious  as  we  penetrated 
deeper  into  the  district.  We  had  gone  a  con- 
siderable distance.  From  time  to  time  a  man 
would  meet  us,  and  then  another.  We  seemed 
to  be  going  from  precinct  to  precinct  under  some 
sort  of  escort.     I  noticed  that  Absalom  had  many 


TRIPOLI  347 

hesitations;  once  or  twice  he  refused  to  go  fur- 
ther, and  there  was  something  resembhng  an 
altercation;  then  he  stopped  decisively,  and 
would  not  budge  until  some  one  whom  he 
desired  should  come  in  person.  We  stood,  a 
group  of  four  or  five,  waiting  in  the  obscure 
passageway  for  some  ten  minutes.  At  last  the 
man  came,  a  tall  Arab,  with  a  look  of  rude 
strength  and  superiority.  He  was  the  chief,  and 
we  walked  on  with  him  in  that  dark  network 
of  corners  and  alleys.  I  was  beginning  to  think 
it  a  long  distance,  when  we  turned  under  a 
heavy  gateway  into  a  dark,  open  court,  as  large 
as  a  small  city  square,  with  houses  round  it  like 
tenements.  A  kerosene  lamp  in  a  glass  cage 
flared  dimly  on  one  side,  and  there  were  a  few 
figures  round  the  court;  but  the  scene  soon  took 
on  a  livelier  aspect. 

The  chief  began  collecting  his  men  in  the 
centre,  and  numbers  of  people  emerged  from 
the  houses  and  sat  on  the  edges  near  the  walls 
of  the  houses.  They  were  a  rough-looking 
crowd,  evidently  very  poor  and  badly  clothed, 
and  there  w^ere  many  that  made  a  wild  appear- 
ance squatting  there  in  the  darkness.  Two 
policemen,  attracted  by  the  commotion,  came 
in,  and  a  street  lamp  was  transferred  into  the 
court.     There  was  now  quite  a  gathering  in  the 


348    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

centre,  where  a  fire  had  been  built  by  which 
three  men  were  seated;  some  sort  of  incense  was 
thrown  into  it,  and  a  Hght  smoke  with  a  pun- 
gent odor  began  to  be  hghtly  diffused  through 
the  court.  There  must  have  been  as  many  as 
seventy  in  the  crowd  round  the  fire,  and  at  least 
a  couple  of  hundred  spectators  crouched  about 
the  sides;  it  was  more  of  an  exhibition  than  I 
had  expected,  and  from  the  corner  where  I  sat 
with  Absalom  and  two  or  three  attendants  the 
scene  began  to  be  weird.  Then  the  drum  beat 
in  the  middle;  the  men,  all  of  whom  had  clap- 
pers, lifted  them  in  the  air,  falling  into  line,  and 
immediately  one  of  those  wild,  savage  chants 
shrilled  forth,  rising  and  rising  to  an  acute  cry 
and  falling  monotonously  down,  increasing  in 
volume  and  mingling  with  the  noise  of  the  sharp 
clappers  and  the  drum  —  an  infernal  din.  The 
chant  of  the  Aissaouas,  that  I  had  heard  in  the 
desert,  was  "mellow  music  matched  with  this." 
And,  from  the  first  moment  it  never  stopped; 
it  was  ear-piercing  as  it  reverberated  in  the 
closed  court,  and  at  first  it  was  confusing. 

The  dance  began  with  a  procession  in  double 
file  round  the  fire,  with  the  three  men  seated  by 
the  smoky  flame.  It  was  a  slow  walk  timed  to 
the  rhythm  of  the  voices  and  the  clappers, 
gradually  increasing  in  speed  and  becoming  a 


TRIPOLI  349 

jump,  with  violent  gesticulation,  twisting,  and 
long  reaching  of  the  arms  and  legs,  while  the 
human  cry  grew  shriller  and  more  vibrant  and 
rapid  in  the  emotional  crisis  of  the  excitement. 
Round  and  round  they  went,  and  from  time  to 
time  the  line  would  break  into  parts  as  the  men 
turned  to  the  centre  just  before  me.  There  were 
three  persons  who  seemed  to  be  leaders:  one, 
whom  I  named  the  Hadji  because  he  answered 
to  my  idea  of  that  word,  another  dervish-like, 
and  a  black  man.  The  dervish  interested  me 
most.  He  was  the  head  of  his  group,  and  as  he 
came  between  me  and  the  fire,  standing  well  for- 
ward from  his  band  and  well  in  toward  the  fire, 
he  would  whirl,  and  then  reverse,  whirling  in 
the  opposite  direction ;  and  —  he  and  the  pro- 
cession moving  forward  all  the  time  —  he  w^ould 
fall  limply  forward  toward  his  men  almost  to 
the  ground,  recover,  and  fling  himself  backward, 
rising  high  wuth  his  clappers  spread  far  over  his 
head.  It  was  a  diabolical  posture;  and,  as  he 
stood  so,  his  leaping  followers  bowed  down  to 
him,  kneeling  almost  to  the  ground  but  not 
touching  it,  and  flinging  themselves  erect  far 
back  with  arms  spread.  I  wondered  how  they 
kept  their  balance  in  that  dancing  prostration. 
Then  the  group  would  pass  on,  and  the  next 
come  into  play  —  the  Hadji,  the  black  man  — 


350    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

with  the  same  ceremony,  but  without  the  whirl- 
ing. Round  and  round  they  went  interminably; 
the  chant  rose  and  fell,  the  march  slackened  and 
quickened,  and  every  few  moments  there  was 
this  spasmodic  rite  of  the  salutation  and  pros- 
tration at  the  height  of  the  dance. 

The  ring  of  spectators,  crouched  and  huddled 
round  the  court,  sat  in  the  imperturbable  silence 
and  apathy  of  such  audiences.  The  edges  of 
the  scene  were  an  obscure  mass  of  serried,  half- 
seen  forms  under  the  house  walls,  filling  the 
space  rather  closely;  the  smoke  of  the  incense, 
with  which  the  fire  was  fed,  hung  in  the  air,  and 
Absalom  said  it  was  good  for  my  eyes;  the  only 
light  was  the  blaze  of  the  flame  upon  the  dark, 
moving  forms  in  the  middle,  and  the  two  street 
lamps  over  them,  and  the  night-sky  above.  It 
was  an  unearthly  scene,  with  those  strange 
figures  and  heavy  shadows;  and  the  fearful  din 
made  it  demonic.  I  do  not  know  what  the 
dance  was,  its  name  or  origin;  but  it  seemed  to 
me  to  be  devil  worship,  a  relic  of  the  old  African 
forest,  a  rite  of  the  primitive  paganism  and  sav- 
age cults  of  the  early  world.  The  three  dark 
men  by  the  fire  with  the  drum,  the  grotesque, 
fantastic  ritual  of  the  bowing  and  kneeling  pro- 
cession, the  atmosphere  of  physical  hysteria  and 
muscular  intoxication,  the  monotonous,  shrill  cry 


TRIPOLI  351 

in  which  the  emotional  excitement  mounted  — 
here  were  traits  of  the  prehistoric  horde,  of  a 
savagery  still  alive  and  vibrant  in  these  dancing 
figures.  It  was  as  if  I  were  assisting  at  a  worship 
of  the  Evil  One  in  a  remote  and  barbarous  past. 
After  a  while  I  began  to  take  notice  of  par- 
ticular individuals  in  the  dancing  mass.  I  was 
specially  attracted  by  three  who  seemed  uncom- 
monly strong  and  tireless  and  made  a  group  by 
themselves.  They  were  poorly  but  distinctively 
clad.  One  was  in  black,  with  loose  arm-sleeves 
showing  his  bare  skin  to  the  breast;  one  was  in 
white,  with  an  over-haik  of  black  divided  down 
the  back,  which  streamed  out;  the  third,  who 
was  very  tall  and  lank,  one  of  the  tallest  figures 
there,  was  in  blue,  faded  and  worn;  and,  as  they 
danced,  of  course  the  folds  of  these  garments 
spread  out  on  the  air,  showing  their  bare  legs  in 
free  motion.  Their  heads  were  closely  covered 
with  white,  except  the  mouth  and  eyes  —  not 
merely  covered,  but  wrapped.  I  turned  to  Ab- 
salom, and  said,  "Touaregs."  He  looked  at 
them,  as  I  picked  them  out  for  him,  and  said, 
"  SI,  signor,"  for  he  always  spoke  to  me  in  Italian. 
I  had  wished  much  to  see  some  Touaregs,  and, 
though  I  had  seen  men  with  covered  faces,  I 
had  never  been  quite  sure.  They  are  the  finest 
race  of  the  desert,  first  in  all  manly  savage  traits, 


352    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

bandits  of  the  sands,  complete  and  natural  rob- 
bers, fierce  fanatics,  death-dealers  —  the  most 
feared  of  all  the  tribes.  They  cover  their  faces 
thus  to  protect  them  from  the  sand,  for  they  are 
pure  desert  men.  I  smiled  to  think  that  at  my 
first  meeting  with  the  terrible  Touaregs  I  found 
three  of  them  dancing  for  my  amusement;  but 
I  looked  at  them  with  the  keenest  interest. 
They  were  certainly  superb  in  muscular  strength. 
At  the  end  of  an  hour  they  showed  no  weariness; 
and  there  was  a  vigor  in  their  motions,  an  elas- 
ticity and  endurance  that  easily  distinguished 
them  from  the  others.  I  watched  them  long. 
They  were  perfectly  tireless,  and  the  dance  called 
for  constant  violent  muscular  effort.  I  shall 
never  forget  that  group,  whose  garb  itself,  thin 
and  open,  had  a  riding  look,  and  especially  the 
man  in  the  blue  garment,  with  long,  gaunt  arms 
and  legs,  who  fell  forward  and  rebounded  with 
a  spring  of  iron. 

There  were  some  changes  in  the  method  and 
order  of  the  motions,  but  the  dances  for  the 
most  part  were  merely  new  arrangements  of  the 
same  jumping  and  kneeling  performance.  I 
sat  in  the  awful  din  of  it  for  two  hours,  interested 
in  many  things,  and  rather  pleased,  I  confess,  at 
being  alone  in  such  a  company.  One  gets  nearer 
to  them  so  in  feeling;   with  a  companion  of  the 


TRIPOLI  353 

same  race,  even  though  unknown,  one  stays 
with  his  race.  I  left  the  dance  still  in  the  full 
tide  of  vehemence  and  glory  of  uproar,  overhung 
by  the  light  pungent  smoke  and  dissonance, 
with  the  obscurely  crouching  throng  in  the  low 
shadows,  and  as  we  lost  the  sound  of  it  in  the 
deep  silence  of  the  dark  lanes,  where  we  met  no 
one,  I  think  the  night  of  an  Arab  city  never 
seemed  so  still.  A  man  with  a  lantern  went 
ahead  to  light  the  way  which  was  black  with 
darkness;  Absalom  and  the  headman  went  with 
me,  and  a  negro  followed  behind.  They  at- 
tended me  to  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  it  was 
a  striking  night  scene  as  I  stood  in  the  hallway, 
the  negro  guards  roused  from  their  straw  mats 
looking  on,  and  shook  hands  with  the  strong- 
faced,  rough-garbed  headman  who  had  had  me 
in  his  protection  that  night. 

VII 

I  WENT  out  for  a  last  drive  with  the  British 
consul  toward  the  oasis  of  Gergarish,  which  lies 
westward  of  the  city,  a  new  direction  for  me. 
He  was  familiar  with  the  Mediterranean;  and, 
the  talk  falling  on  the  classical  background  of 
North  Africa,  I  told  him  of  my  search  for  the 
lotus   at   Djerba.     He  avowed   his  belief   that 


354    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

much  of  the  Greek  mythic  past  had  its  local 
habitation  on  these  coasts,  and  gave  me  a  strik- 
ing and  quite  unexpected  instance.  I  had  sup- 
posed that  Lethe  was  an  underground  stream 
and  approached  only  by  the  ghosts  of  the  dead. 
He  assured  me  that  it  was  situated  not  very 
far  from  Benghazi,  where  he  had  been  consul, 
and  made  an  excellent  table  water.  It  is  a  large 
fountain  or  underground  lake  in  a  cave;  he  had 
been  on  it  in  a  boat  with  a  friend,  and  it  was  said 
that  fumes  from  the  water  would  oppress  the 
passenger  with  drowsiness.  I  heard  this  with 
great  interest,  and  hke  to  remember  that  I  can 
obtain  a  cup  of  Lethe,  should  I  desire  it,  this  side 
the  infernal  world.  My  friend  added  his  belief 
that  partial  oblivion  can  be  found  comparatively 
widely  diffused  in  North  Africa,  not  being  de- 
pendent on  either  Lethe  or  the  lotus.  This  tra- 
dition of  drowsiness  which  attaches  to  these 
coasts  in  old  days  is  to  be  attributed  to  the 
quality  of  the  air,  which  is  soporific.  Continued 
residence  causes  a  loss  of  memory,  not  that  one 
forgets  his  early  days,  home,  and  children,  like 
the  lotus-eaters,  but  one  grows  uncertain  about 
recent  events  and  the  mind  becomes  hazy  as  to 
whether  one  has  or  has  not  done  this  or  that; 
to  such  a  degree  is  this  true  that  my  friend  ad- 
vised a  return  to  the  north  at  least  once  in  two 


TRIPOLI  355 

years  to  allow  the  memory  to  recover  its  normal 
force.  With  such  talk,  which  was  quite  seri- 
ously said,  though  it  has  its  humorous  side,  and 
which  faithfully  reflects  the  African  atmosphere, 
we  whiled  away  the  time,  conversing,  too,  of  the 
American  excavations  at  Benghazi  and  the  bells 
of  Derna  that  rang  the  Italian  priest  to  his  death 
—  for  the  Arabs  dislike  bells  —  and  the  thou- 
sand and  one  topics  on  which  a  traveller  is 
always  prepared  to  receive  information.  I  had 
been  so  long  alone  that  those  talks  at  Tripoli 
were  almost  as  much  of  a  rarity  as  the  scenes; 
they  are  an  essential  part  of  my  memory  of  the 
voyage. 

Our  destination  was  not  the  oasis,  but  some 
caverns  on  a  height  above  it.  The  day  was 
brilliant  and  a  noble  desert  view  stretched  round 
us  from  the  eminence.  The  blue  sea  sparkled 
not  far  away,  an  horizon-stripe  up  and  down 
the  coast  as  far  as  one  could  see;  the  splendid 
dark  green  mass  of  the  oasis  lay  just  below  us 
in  the  valley,  and  between  us  and  it  the  desert 
plain  undulated  with  the  long  slopes  of  a  rolling 
prairie,  spotted  with  cattle  and  a  few  Arab 
groups;  inland  the  sands  swept  on  to  the  line 
of  mountains  low  on  the  far  horizon.  The  mass 
of  rock  above  us  was  picturesque  and  solitary. 
The  gem  of  the  view,  however,  was  Tripoli  east- 


356    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

ward.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  truly  seen  the 
city  from  outside  —  just  such  a  Moslem  city  as 
one  dreams  of,  a  white  city,  small  and  beautiful, 
snowy  pure  in  the  liquid  air.  I  was  surprised 
at  its  beauty.  We  explored  the  cave.  It  was 
of  a  sort  of  stratified  pumice  stone  and  partly 
filled  up  with  sand.  It  had  been  at  some  time 
a  troglodyte  dwelling,  and  chambers  had  been 
hollowed  in  it.  There  are  many  troglodytes,  or 
cave-dwellers,  still  living  in  this  primitive  man- 
ner in  rock-hewn  chambers  in  North  Africa. 
There  are  villages  of  them  in  the  mountains  back 
of  Biskra,  and  especially  in  the  southeastern  cor- 
ner of  Tunisia  opposite  Djerba,  and  they  are 
found  in  the  low  range  of  the  Djebel-Ghariane 
that  I  was  looking  on  in  the  distance.  This 
cavern  that  we  were  exploring  was  one  of  their 
prehistoric  haunts,  a  natural  fortress  and  place 
of  refuge  for  a  small  group  of  families  in  the 
wild  waste. 

The  drive  back  was  uncommonly  beautiful, 
very  African  in  color,  and  increasing  in  atmos- 
pheric charm  as  we  neared  the  city  in  the  clar- 
ity of  the  sunset  light.  The  coast  view  was 
especially  lovely.  The  blue  sea  made  the  offing, 
along  which  a  line  of  scattered  palms,  continu- 
ous but  thin  enough  to  give  its  full  value  to 
each  dark  green  tuft  in  the  blue  air,  and  to  many 


TRIPOLI  357 

a  single  columnar  stem  beneath,  ran  like  a  screen, 
not  too  far  from  the  roadway;  and  the  strong 
foreground  was  that  red-brown  earth  with  the 
sunset  light  beginning  on  it.  The  beautiful 
white  city  lay  ahead  of  us.  The  quality  of  the 
atmosphere  was  remarkable.  The  trees  were 
very  light,  and  seemed  to  float  in  the  sky,  like 
goldfish  in  a  globe;  and  as  the  sunset  grew, 
the  diffused  rose  through  the  palms  on  the  other 
side  seemed  almost  a  new  sky.  It  was  my  last 
evening  in  Tripoli. 

VIII 

I  HAD  loitered  for  the  last  time  in  the  street 
of  the  blueness  and  lingered  in  the  souks  of  the 
Djerba  merchants  and  especially  in  the  Uttle 
shop  of  a  mild-mannered  Soudanese  dealer  where 
I  gathered  up  the  curious  objects  that  had  been 
slowly  collecting  there  for  me  to  serve  as  me- 
mentos —  things  of  gourd  and  hide,  of  skin 
and  straw,  a  few  ostrich  plumes.  I  had  photo- 
graphed the  baker's  shop,  and  stopped  at  the  in- 
tersection of  the  four  corners  to  look  once  more 
at  the  ever-passing  figures  of  the  inscrutable 
and  conglomerate  crowd,  the  float  of  the  desert 
life.  I  had  called  on  my  friend  and  kind  adviser 
at  the  French  Consulate,  and  my  British  host. 


358    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

to  both  of  whom  I  owed  so  much  of  the  pleasure 
and  variety  of  my  traveller's  sojourn.  In  one 
respect  it  was  unique  in  my  wanderings.  I  had 
never  seen  so  many  strata  of  culture,  so  many 
diverse  kinds  and  stages  of  human  life,  in  one 
place.  I  had  had  a  last  talk  with  Seyd,  the  boy 
from  Fezzan,  and  with  the  negro  guards  of  the 
gate  and  the  boys  at  the  door  who  were  eager 
rivals  for  my  morning  favors.  Now  it  was  over, 
and  I  stood  on  the  deck  with  Absalom.  I  was 
sorry  to  part  with  him.  What  a  faithful  watch 
he  had  kept!  No  matter  at  what  hour  I  stepped 
out  into  the  street,  he  was  there,  seated  by  the 
wall;  wherever  I  left  my  consular  friends,  in 
some  mysterious  way  he  was  instantly  there  in 
the  street  at  my  side.  He  had  tempted  me  to 
a  longer  stay  with  lures  of  hunting  in  the  desert 
where  he  calmly  explained  he  would  watch  with 
a  gun  while  I  slept,  and  then  I  would  watch, 
though  there  would  be  two  others  with  us,  but 
it  would  be  better  if  one  or  the  other  of  us  were 
always  awake,  for  one  did  not  know  what  might 
be  in  the  desert;  and  he  had  planned  a  voyage 
to  Lebda,  the  city  of  Septimius  Severus  —  it 
might  be  a  rough  voyage  in  a  boat  none  too  good, 
but  was  not  he  a  pilot?  He  had  brought  me 
one  day  all  his  pilot  papers;  there  were  hundreds 
of  them,  each  with  the  name  of  the  craft  and 


TRIPOLI  359 

the  signature  of  the  captain  whose  ways  he  had 
safely  guided  on  this  dangerous  coast  in  the 
years  gone  by.  But  my  voyage  in  North  Africa 
was  finished;  it  was  done;  the  much  that  I  had 
left  unseen,  and  I  realized  how  much  that  was 
—  for  wherever  one  goes,  new  horizons  are  al- 
ways rising  with  their  magical  drawing  of  the 
unknown  —  all  that  was  for  "another  time." 
So,  knowing  the  end  had  come,  he  took  both 
my  hands  in  both  his  for  our  warm  addio,  bent 
his  head,  and  went  slowly  down  the  ship's  side. 
I  watched  the  scene  as  w^e  drew  away.  The 
central  mass  of  the  fort  stood  in  shadow,  and 
the  sunset  light  streamed  over  the  eastern  side 
of  the  city,  the  beach  and  bluffs;  slender  min- 
arets islanded  the  sky;  the  blue  crescent  of  the 
bay  lay  broad  beneath;  the  oasis  rose  over  the 
banked  earth,  and  stretched  inland,  and  the 
high  horizon  line  was  plumed  with  tall  single 
palms  tufting  the  long  sky.  I  watched  it  long, 
till  the  beautiful  city  in  the  fair  evening  light 
lessened  and  narrowed  to  a  gleam,  and  at  the 
end  it  was  like  the  white  crest  of  a  wave  that 
sank  and  was  seen  no  more. 


360    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 


IX 


I  WENT  on  deck.  It  was  a  May  night  with 
a  fresh,  cold  wind.  There  was  a  bright  star  over 
the  crescent  moon  which  hung  well  down  the 
west,  and  all  the  heavens  were  bright,  but  not 
too  bright.  I  leaned  on  the  rounds  of  a  rope 
ladder  of  the  rigging  by  the  ship's  side  aft,  and 
was  alone;  it  was  cold,  and  the  passengers  were 
few.  I  noticed  on  the  horizon  a  dark  shadow 
half -risen  from  the  waters  and  mounting  toward 
the  moon;  it  rose  rapidly,  and  grew  black  as 
it  neared  the  light  above.  It  was  like  a  high 
arch,  or  cascade  of  gloom,  broadening  its  skirts 
as  it  fell  on  the  horizon.  The  moon  was  its 
apex,  and  seemed  about  to  enter  it.  The  scene 
was  fantastic  in  the  extreme,  unearthly,  a  scene 
of  Poe's  imagination;  the  moon  hung  as  if  at 
the  entrance  of  an  unknown  region  into  which 
it  was  about  to  descend.  But  there  was  no 
further  change.  The  moon  crested  the  arch; 
the  single  star  burned  brilliantly  directly  above 
and  between  the  horns  of  the  crescent  and  at 
some  distance  aloft.  I  watched  the  strange 
spectacle;  the  moon  and  the  broad-skirted  cur- 
tain of  black  gloom,  pouring  from  it  on  the 
waters  just  in  the  line  of  its  bright  track  over 


TRIPOLI  361 

the  sea,  sank  slowly  down  together.  The  moon 
reddened  as  it  neared  the  horizon  line,  and  when 
the  crescent  at  last  rested  on  the  sea,  and  the 
shadow  had  been  wholly  absorbed  in  the  moon's 
track,  there  was  another  Poesque  effect;  the 
horned  moon  was  like  a  ship  of  flame  —  not 
a  ship  on  fire,  but  a  ship  of  flame  —  sailing 
on  the  horizon.  That  picture,  though  it  could 
have  been  but  for  a  few  moments,  seemed  to 
last  long,  and  sank  dying  in  a  red  glow  slowly. 
I  remember  recalling  the  lines: 

"  The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set." 

What  followed  was  so  singular  that  it  may 
be  best  to  record  it  in  nearly  the  exact  words 
of  my  rough  notes,  made  early  the  next  morn- 
ing off  Malta: 

"The  strange  thing  was  that  the  star,  still 
somewhat  high  in  the  w^est,  growing  brighter, 
took  the  track  of  the  moon.  I  mean  the 
moon's  path  of  light  on  the  water  became  the 
star's  path,  as  plain  but  whiter;  one  passed 
and  the  other  was  there  imperceptibly;  one 
became  the  other.  It  reminded  me  of  one  faith 
changing  into  another,  from  a  higher  heavenly 
source.  I  stayed  because  the  star  was  so  beau- 
tiful —  the  most  beautiful  star  I  ever  saw,  except 


362    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

perhaps  the  star  off  Cyprus.  It  grew  larger  and 
more  radiant,  with  many,  many  points,  and  be- 
came a  bunch,  as  it  were,  of  jackstraw  rays,  one 
crossing  another,  all  straight;  and  then,  as  I 
looked,  a  strange  thing  happened. 

*'I  saw  what  might  have  been  spirits  in  the 
star,  as  in  a  picture.  The  star  lost  shape,  and 
became  only  the  setting  of  these  forms  of  light, 
perfect  human  figures.  At  first  there  were  two, 
one  older  and  one  younger,  like  an  angel  with 
Tobias  or  Virgin  with  the  young  St.  John;  then 
there  were  many  others,  not  at  the  same  time,  but 
successively.  Some  were  constantly  repeated; 
the  Byzantine  throned  figure  hieratic,  the  high- 
winged  angel  tall,  the  young  angel  seated  and 
writing,  the  standing  figure,  prophetic,  blessing, 
with  high  hands.  There  were  scenes  as  well 
as  figures:  desert  scenes  as  of  Arabs  —  effects 
of  the  white  and  dark,  like  turbaned  and  robed 
figures  together;  the  Magian  scene;  mixed 
moving  groups,  sometimes  turned  aw^ay  from 
me.  The  figures  often  moved  with  regard  to 
each  other,  and  trembled  on  my  own  eye  sin- 
gly. When  the  star  approached  the  horizon, 
there  were  figures  that  seemed  to  walk  toward 
me  on  the  sea,  all  white  and  radiant  —  single 
figures  always.  There  were  in  all  three  sorts: 
Byzantine,  with  the  crown  or  canopy  above,  and 


TRIPOLI  363 

the  throne;  Italian  groups  and  lines;  and  Mos- 
lem. There  was  nothing  distinctively  Greek 
except  seated  figures. 

*'This  continued  till  the  star  set,  perhaps  an 
hour.  I  would  look  off  from  the  star  to  the 
other  stars  and  to  the  sea;  but  as  soon  as  my 
eyes  went  back  to  the  star,  there  were  the 
changing  figures  still  to  be  seen.  One  did  not 
see  the  star,  but  the  figures;  not  framed  in  a 
star  or  in  a  round  orb,  but  on  a  shapeless  back- 
ground; one  saw  only  figures  of  light  as  if  'the 
heavens  were  opened.'  And  when  the  star  set 
and  was  gone,  another  planet  above,  also  very 
bright,  as  I  looked,  opened  in  the  same  way, 
with  similar  figures.  There  I  saw  a  form  with 
Michel-Angelo-like  limbs,  seated  on  the  orb 
with  loose  posture,  like  the  spirit  of  the  star, 
and  then  a  tall,  throned  figure  with  the  crown 
over  it.     I  did  not  at  any  time  see  any  features 

—  only  forms,  very  distinct  in  limbs  and  model- 
ling of  figure,  but  too  distant  for  features.  It 
was  an  hour  or  more,  and  I  still  saw  them  in 
the  new  star  when  I  turned  away  to  go  below. 
My  eyes  were  tired.     I  was  not  at  all  excited 

—  quite  steady,  and  observing  and  experiment- 
ing; for  I  had  never  known  anything  similar 
to  this.  The  visions  were  constant,  without 
any    interval,    though    changing.     It    was    like 


364    NORTH  AFRICA  AND  THE  DESERT 

looking  Into  a  room  through  a  window,  or  out 
of  a  room  upon  a  landscape. 

"It  was  wonderfully  spiritual  and  beautiful. 
The  figures  were  all  noble  and  beautiful,  espe- 
cially in  line,  and  occupied  w^ith  something,  like 
living  forms.  They  were  whiter  but  not  with 
white  clothing,  except  the  Moslem  figures, 
sometimes;  but  white  as  of  some  substance  of 
light  —  the  faces  sometimes  dark,  and  there 
were  shadows  marking  relations  of  the  figures, 
but  not  shadows  thrown  by  the  figures.  I  made 
no  effort  to  shape  them;  they  came;  they  were 
of  themselves. 

"I  thought  this  was  what  Blake  saw;  what 
the  shepherds  saw;  what  all  orientals  saw  when 
the  heavens  were  '  opened '  —  what  Jacob  saw, 
perhaps.  What  struck  me  was  that  the  star 
w^as  no  longer  a  star,  but  shapeless,  and  onlj'^ 
a  means  of  seeing.  It  was  a  most  remarkable 
experience." 

/  Africa  was  always  a  land  of  magic;  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  night  as  if  the  spirit  of  the 
land  were  bidding  me,  who  had  so  loved  it, 
farewell. 


/ 


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